Some poets burn their candles to the snuff;
it makes me shout that I have had enough!
I scan their lines for something new to learn;
they craft their works with words I can’t discern.
They write of politics, expose love scenes.
In outer space, they claim, they grow green beans.
They speak of chemo rooms like vintage wine
and pen a parody on porcupine.
A freeway runs along the coast to Maine;
they bus me there through sheets of coldest rain.
They guide me to the quaint brush arbor meets;
I pray for soldiers on Iraqi streets.
The poets tell of trains that dance the rails,
then paint the ships at sea with wind-torn sails.
Like wheels, they roll to publish what they know.
Some win awards and stash their dabs of dough!
An Air Force retiree, his children,
his wife, granddaughters, too
took a trip back to the state of Maine–
to see again the birthplace
of the youngest daughter–
first day out, they stopped in cool of rain.
Her birthplace by the ocean
a town called Kittery
vivid memories of golden days
with little children three
delightful in all their child-like ways.
Return to Hampton Beach, NH
Visit was magnificent
with skies and sand both great.
Duplex still there they used to call home.
New memories made that day
in town of Kittery
to take with them wherever they roam.