| MORNING |
| In blazing light it stirred the dew. |
| A jewel on each leaf of the glade at dawn shook on the frosty greeness. |
| While no song was heard but the water's plummet from the shining rocks above, |
| And a bird awakened by the song of a new day. |
| EVENING |
| The shadows began to crawl across the sky, |
| Punctured here and there by pinholes |
| Allowing the day above to show through, |
| Marked by a bell's toll and a cool wind. |
| THE IRISH |
| When you go to Heaven, Saints and Angels you'll meet |
| The Pearly Gates'll swing open, and you'll walk the golden street. |
| But don't look around there for Irish 'cause none to Heaven have come. |
| See, the Irish don't die |
| They just putrify |
| Drinkin' vodka and whiskey and rum. |
| ANGUISH |
| The rain had stopped, but night had come |
| The gnarled trees still dripped. |
| Fog clung to the muddy road, the dark clouds to the sky, and through the damp air between came again the cry. |
| The low lonely cry from the marsh below, rebounding from the decaying walls of the house now overgrown by time |
| And carried by the dampness, sounded through the hollow. |
| But those within answered not, nor was there a sound |
| Save the cold wind, which brought again the rain. |
| all poems copyright ©1997, Gunnar Carlson, Las Cruces, NM |