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Matthew Frederick Blowers III

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Chagrin Falls, OH, US

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Summer's Frost.

by

Matthew Frederick Blowers III

I remember the bright melody of it's chimes,
As kids hollered,"Hey Ma, got a nickel or dime?"
Then that white knight on wheels,
Decal-plastered, drove s-l-o-w-l-y,
Bringing sweet, icy, treats, thirsty children found holy,
In lopsided runs, with coins clenched in their hands,
They came, gazing at the pictures,
And yelled their demands,
"Gimme Popsicles or an Orange Pushup!",they'd scream,
As their Cash went clink-clank,
In his coin change machine,
Then he'd turn to that door with the big, metal latch,
Frosty mists from it poured,
As he opened the hatch,
Each child's eyes grew as sharp,
As a prowling, young fox is,
When he reached deep inside,
And he rustled those boxes,
Then he'd pull out a brightly wrapped, treat-on-a-stick,
That was grabbed,and was gone,like the kid,Oh,so quick,
To the shade of a tree,
Where they'd soon meditate,
On the sugary taste, of the ice cream they ate.

Then that white knight into summer's heat,
L-u-m-b-e-r-e-d on,
Leaving pleasurable chills,
In the places it'd gone.


Superstitions

by

Matthew Frederick Blowers III

My eyes keep d-r-i-f-t-i-n-g,

to that GLARING bulb,

60 watts of salvation,

Vigilance for my soul,

For I cannot forget,

what that old fortune teller,

whispered in my ear,

Just past noon,

"Don't turn out the light, tonight,

Death waits in the corner for you,"

It's 4:00 a.m.

And the bulb just flickered,

Twice!!

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord be with me,

Hail Mary, full of...


Relics.

by

Matthew Frederick Blowers III

The toys sit sadly, untouched on the shelf,

Unmoved from the spots, where he left them himself,

Now no longer played with, they grow dusty, and old,

And they wonder each week, how he could be so cold?

But they'll stay in their places,

Growing rusty and bored,

Timmy drowned in the river,

abd he's home with the Lord.


The Garden Of People.

by

Matthew Frederick Blowers III

The tranquil winds murmur beneath the church steeples,
Bending grass blades in grief, over gardens of people.

Each furrow's well-tended,irrigated with tears,
Every plot's marked by stones, with the names,and the years,

Here lies: Daisy and Rose, there is Poppy and Mum,
Near a Jack-In-The-Pulpit, now resting his tongue,

Here lies: Babies-Breath wilted, and nearby Sweet William,
Oh, how Holly and Heather's cheeks, once glowed Vermillion,

Here's Veronica, Lily, Alfalfa and Hazel,
Near Olive, and Myrtle, Timothy and Sweet Basil,

Belladonna, and Rose, Marguerite, and dear Iris,
Near a Wandering Jew, who was felled by a virus,

There's Violet,and Ginger, here's Pepper and Jasmine,
Over Solomon's seal, Bleeding Hearts mourn what has been,

Here Wormwood surrounds each Old-Man-In-The-Spring,
Bugleweeds blow out taps, Birds-Of-Paradise sing,

Walk softly frail mortals, with your Bittersweet thoughts,
Where Bluebells toll silent, over Forget-Me-Nots,

For whatever men plant in the depths of Earth's womb,
God will soon resurrect, and again they may bloom,

Thus the winds murmer gently beneath the church steeples,
Over harvests forthcoming, in the gardens of people.


The Garden Of People.

by

Matthew Frederick Blowers III

The tranquil winds murmur beneath the church steeples,
Bending grass blades in grief, over gardens of people.

Each furrow's well-tended,irrigated with tears,
Every plot's marked by stones, with the names,and the years,

Here lies: Daisy and Rose, there is Poppy and Mum,
Near a Jack-In-The-Pulpit, now resting his tongue,

Here lies: Babies-Breath wilted, and nearby Sweet William,
Oh, how Holly and Heather's cheeks, once glowed Vermillion,

Here's Veronica, Lily, Alfalfa and Hazel,
Near Olive, and Myrtle, Timothy and Sweet Basil,

Belladonna, and Rose, Marguerite, and dear Iris,
Near a Wandering Jew, who was felled by a virus,

There's Violet,and Ginger, here's Pepper and Jasmine,
Over Solomon's seal, Bleeding Hearts mourn what has been,

Here Wormwood surrounds each Old-Man-In-The-Spring,
Bugleweeds blow out taps, Birds-Of-Paradise sing,

Walk softly frail mortals, with your Bittersweet thoughts,
Where Bluebells toll silent, over Forget-Me-Nots,

For whatever men plant in the depths of Earth's womb,
God will soon resurrect, and again they may bloom,

Thus the winds murmer gently beneath the church steeples,
Over harvests forthcoming, in the gardens of people.