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Open Poetry #15
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A Bag of Coins
| Open Poetry #15 |
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A Bag of Coins |
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Professor Gloom Member Elite
since 2000-07-23
Posts 3082of Depression |
Never a vagrant he carried coins in leather, Bag of found coins the pennies from the street The forgotten ones that rolled into the gutter, The little coins you’d not notice under your feet Pennies, nickels, a few dimes, and a rare quarter, Gathered them up before the morning sweep, Perhaps enough for a breakfast at the diner. Quarters became found often at his feet, Pairs of them at several of dirty corners, He’d find enough to pay for what he’d eat. Walking farther and more different things gather Fallen from pockets pawned to coins to keep, He walked to the countryside and helped a farmer, The bag of coins his pillow when he’d sleep. Summer went and the winter turned the world colder, Before morning broke he’d still walk the street, The pair of coins were always at the same corner, But now he would leave then there at his feet, For time had passed in years and he had grown older, More coins already enough to pay to eat, Decades drifted by and he became the farmer, Each morn he’d go to the market and meet, To pause there just briefly at that dirty corner From bag of coins for dropping on the street Without ever knowing of who is the finder. Gloom |
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| © Copyright 2001 Aszard Drazlom - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Duncan Member Ascendant
since 2001-08-07
Posts 5455 |
Good, full circle feeling to this. |
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Professor Gloom Member Elite
since 2000-07-23
Posts 3082of Depression |
Thank you, Duncan Glad you liked my circle of words Gloom |
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nakdthoughts Member Laureate
since 2000-10-29
Posts 19200Between the Lines |
reminds me..that I am sometimes the keeper of the find...selfishly so... a somber poem for a somber day,PG ~Wynter "The worst prison would be a closed heart". |
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Marge Tindal 
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384Florida's Foreverly Shores |
ProfessorGloom~ A poignant piece ... And perhaps we should all think of leaving a few coins on the street for others to find~ ~*Marge*~ ~*The pen of the poet never runs out of ink, as long as we breathe.*~ |
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