Poems – Matt Keough's Blog

April Saturday Morning

Chilly front stoop seat
The moon setting in the west
Birds singing greetings

The wannabe coach
thinks we need his opinion
EVERY dang play

On June Twenty One
the sun remains suspended
its season is here

More and more
I long for
an isolated place
with a dark sky
and water lapping

Fishscale foul pole
sun glints in the deep blue sky

Standing tall
stands alone, far from home
and farther from it’s mate

This is an object overlooked
but in fleeting moments
In that moment the sphere soars
Left?
Right?

All eyes on it
for an instant
most important

Foul

Clear sky showing stars
Underfoot snow is squeaking
Feels like two degrees

The ballots are cast
But they are still counting

Predictions come faster
Than a fire hose fountain

Despite our exhaustion
The pundits still talk

Relax, take a nap
Perhaps a long walk

If booze is your thing
Try that too

Whoever you are
You should be you!

Cicadas return
They now sing summer’s swan song
The sun will set soon

Asking my Lord’s help
Keep me from hypocrisy
Today and always

Mid-August arrives
Yellow buses fill the streets
Summer always ends