Filed under:Poetry — posted by jonfrankel on July 25, 2014 @ 5:09 am


Seven seasons in seven days
A child grows to hulking man,
As abed I bathe in opiated waves
Remote control in hand.

Bad becomes good when pressed
Into a wine and wafer of time
That slips in easily between breaths
And the ding, ding of the wind chime.

Perhaps from Becoming I am divorced
And arrive in the land of tir na nOg
On the golden saddle of a silver horse.
I gaze back at a sea lapped in fog.
Dim are the dying faces
The changing channel erases.


  1. Love it!

    Comment by Emily Lisker — July 25, 2014 @ 5:12 am

  2. Thank you! It loves you.

    Comment by jonfrankel — July 25, 2014 @ 8:57 am

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