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Game Plan

Submitted by Ross Hamilton Hill on Fri, 2013-03-22 17:04

Nor'easter rough cut blowing;
flaps like a sail against my ear
as I lean out, hoping the torrid trees
will help me out of this white walled,
squared up room.

You can bet on the market, on horses,
on the roll of dice
but my money's on tomorrow:
dawn's dark colours, the ritual of coffee,
the radio with its familiar concerns.

The news takes its place.
The crescendo, as my Mac opens,
seems metallic, cold;
email, Facebook, Twitter,
the scrolling hunt begins.

Editing stage: 
Editing - rough draft

Comments

Frenchf

Fri, 2013-03-22 18:50

Lonely hearts web sites?

Ross Hamilton Hill

Fri, 2013-03-22 20:20

Ross Hamilton Hill's picture

but I've always felt finding love can't be stage managed, it just happens. I met my last great love in church!!!

author comment

brittle light

Fri, 2013-03-22 18:51

brittle light's picture

slices of life, authentic and rich in mudane behaviors, yet so interesting when glanced through a film, book, or poem. I once heard of a french writer (his name eludes me at the moment) who wrote 50 pages on turning over in bed! (I hope, for any readers sake, he was as good as they say)

I liked this poem, maybe won't win any prizes, but I like things that strike strike my fancy. This did in a casual way. maybe that 's what I like sometimes... casual... with a calm sigh.

later,

Al

Ross Hamilton Hill

Fri, 2013-03-22 20:25

Ross Hamilton Hill's picture

there's a japanese book devoted entirely to: how to eat a bowl noodles.
glad you liked this,

author comment

Seren

Thu, 2013-03-28 07:18

Seren's picture

I cant find the word that describes this poem best, this is really very good

I will come back to this, as its piqued my mind, I am getting tired tonight first night back after a month away I think I over did it smile

its good to read you again I will read this one in the morning, and the word that is elusively just out of my reach may just present itself

thanks for posting this one

love JC xxx

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” — W.B. Yeats

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