Lincoln Hartford, Page #3

More Poetry by Lincoln Hartford: 



In the town where I survived my youth
the time called Halloween
was not for fun.
Scary, threatening, violent.
Primary terror for the night
was blocking the only road  from the East,
which connected Hillsville
to the lonesome Catholic Church
towering above the orange/brown water
of the Mahoning River.

Just as this nameless road
bent to enter the center of town,
there they erected a barrier
of corn shocks, stolen
from the field nearby.
As we watched from our back porch
the youthful terrorists poured oil and gasoline
on these innocent autumnal bystanders.
I yet see our road blazing
in the darkness of
Hillsville Halloween.



November, like most of us, hopes for cloudless days.
When the sun no longer shines, she slips into darkness.

December belongs to the night; plays with sun's slanted light
but she's ruled by shadowed moon,  women's secret delight.

January on the other hand is hard-core cold.
People flee to Cancun from her cruel catharsis.

Ah February, month of presidents, the two good ones.
She wears a loverıs short skirt of 28 chilled days.

March can dance away from bitter blowing snow,
but in Wisconsin she runs a bed and breakfast called Frigid Still. 



God knows we stumble.
Life is one damn thing tripping the next.
Love holds us together.

Love holds us together
God knows.
Life is one damn trip after the other.

Life separates the good from the foolish.
Love doesnıt see it that way.






Copyright İ 2003 by Lincoln Hartford. All rights reserved.
Revised: 11 Sep 2010 20:29:08 -0500 .