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By Little Neck Bay, 5:30 A. M.
by Ken HarnischMorning fog hovers over
The iron of the crescent bay.
One more stone cloud to add to those
That circulate in a mind gone mad
With knowing what it doesn’t know.
I kick the bulrushes down and stare at
Weeds someone has carefully given names.
Though they are all just green and greener to me,
They seem to go on and on with some
Uncharted, chaotic fecundity.
I stay to the right where the bicyclists
And in-line skaters can’t run me down;
An Irony that, since my frying brain
Has long since accomplished that end
Just by thinking of all alternatives
To Mysteries still dripping from
The sponge of life. One that could be
Wrung free of sophistry; of anxiety;
If I only took more walks like this
And left the rest of me at home
06/02/2002 Posted on 04/06/2008
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 04/08/08 at 03:01 AM This feeling I know, and you have found perfect and unexpected ways to describe it.
"To Mysteries still dripping from
The sponge of life"
What an incredible mind-blowing line. Just wow! |
| Posted by Nikki Rice on 04/08/08 at 01:57 PM More than the other lines, these two made me smile:
"I stay to the right where the bicyclists
And in-line skaters can�t run me down;"
You've described otherwise common scenes in a very unique way. Great work.
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| Posted by Melissa Arel on 04/11/08 at 04:01 AM i remember this poem :) good to read it again |
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