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The Storm The Stars And Play In The Yard

The chaos of the storm
A brilliant starry night
A prancing fawn
These things I happen upon

From a worn out porch came a plea
In need of tender and curiosity
One sunny day I felt a spark
My days to change for work in near dark
Now on my own
In a circle of joy
The captain was gone
With another far away storm

I looked to the sky
Into far galaxy showing
Its healing so real
And so I was smiling
So long it had been that sight to occur
So many years a faded blur

Now crystal clear this sight brought glee
A starry night again to see
On route so neat another early morn
Eyes now caught one more treat
I sat and gazed
Was so amazed
A doe with fawn
Ten paces away
Prancing about
For the break of day

A show of light
Brought an end to their stay
I felt sad then glad
As they went on their way
Storms shall pass and a clearing to be

A star lit night is a show for free
The pleasure of the fawn
All simplicity

A leaf on the wind falls to wither in the end
Another borne
One more journey to begin

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Last few words: 
A night on the paper route going door to door. This is when I began writing about experiences on my job prior to the year 2004. My final job began 1995 and continued to the year 2015 when I retired after a first heart attack, when I had been working early mornings in southeast New Hampshire delivering bundles of Newspapers to stores. This poem is the first in my first book The Thirteenth Iron Law about which I am currently editing and rewriting. A recent discovery proves I have publishing rights to this book, so I feel lucky that it can continue.
Editing stage: 

Comments

I like your idea, I can relate to it.
The enlightening moments are rare and precious but can be triggered by simple things.

IRiz

Thanks for stopping and reading,

mark
Director of Community Outreach

"The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape... " (Picasso)

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