At fifty minutes past eight,
The guard could see the gate…
Formerly hid
By a fog lid,
This fog does obfuscate!
–
He was hoping no delivery
Came through the water droplet sea…
Fouling his mission
That limited vision,
Of what the camera’s wide iris could see.
–
No fog horn had blown,
The guard was on his own…
without audience
It didn’t make sense,
Simulating a fog horn’s moan!
–
–Jonathan Caswell
STOICALLY
–
After an eye treatment,
Insisting on how life went…
He stoically
Writes poetry,
Because that is his bent!
–
–Jonathan Caswell
–
TWELVE-MONTH GOALS?
My wife hit me with a zinger,
A zinger the other day…
I’ve yet to get a finger
On what I could possibly say.
–
She wants me to think twelve months ahead,
To goals that we might achieve
When I barely think a week ahead…
She wants me to act my belief.
–
Not sure what she wants to hear from me,
Or what she expects to hear…
Does she want me to go along with her plans
Can I think of something she’d endear?
—Jonathan Caswell
