Ross Productions

The Thin Red Judge

 

There is a thin red line

That blows in the wind

That separates heavens from hells.

 

When the sun finally sets,

It glows crimson red

By the blood of every soul it entails.

Human Not Being

 

I see trains come.

I see trains go.

I see trains take off.

I see trains come to a slow.

I see trains, and no,

They are not just machines

Nor mere things.

They are the symbols

Of people and the population of human beings

With all their comings

And with all their goings.

You begin to see

That we can’t just be.

We must be coming.

We must be going.

Seasons

 

Winter strangled summer until its blood colored the countryside.

Summer’s last breath was the river’s rolling fog.

The spirits of summer gathered in the early morning and made their slow retreat.

The sadness that dwelled in that fog dampened the new chills growing in every man’s heart.

Like a passing memory, the fog’s only physical trail was the wet firewood left in its tracks.

Summer then sank like the sun and forfeited the hour, for the bite of winter is harsh and abiding.

These are 3 poems of from my book which is 26 pages with over 75 poems.