MIKE MACDONALD’S 30 POEM PAGE

Hi, I'm at it again, hopefully channeling some contributions to CNA and a few of the ripe fruits of my daily harvest to my facebook page for the tasting and the first two below....... 30 Poems in November! is a literary fundraiser for Center for New Americans. Center for New Americans welcomes and serves immigrants in Western Massachusetts with free English classes and a range of support services. For more information, please visit: http://www.cnam.org This year, we aim to raise $50,000. Writers do their part by writing one poem each day in November. Friends and family do their part by donating to support this effort. Powerful new poems and financial contributions translate to community support for immigrants.
Goal $ 220.00
100% towards our goal
$ 405.00 raised
HONOR ROLL
Bill And Harriet Diamond
$ 20.00
Little (Middle) Brother Rod
$ 75.00
Lou And Ed
$ 50.00
Rebecca Olander
$ 10.00
Write on!
[Stop]
Don't Your Arms Get Tired ?"........................................................... Row, row, row your poem/ gently down the page,/ wearily, wearily, wearily, wearily,/ strife is but a stage...// Row, row, row your bones/ gently down the street,/ barely, barely, barely, barely,/ old body's hard to beat...// Row, row, row your mind,/ gently down the drain,/ rarely, rarely, rarely, rarely/ find comfort in the brain...// Row, row, row your soul/ gently down the hill,/ Rarely wearily, barely scarcely,/ fairy dust over-spills...//. .................................................................................. Comes the Breath of Life With the Call of Death.......... By the boardwalk of waking dreams I seem to sleep/ beneath the tree of death, and yet the last breath of life/ calls me out to shout about myself, get out of bed,/ peak at Plato's sunlight, loosen the Lord's umbilical cord— / ready to come out kicking, the way I painfully came in. ............................................................................. When I Turn Around He Slaps My Face................ A chipper whipping wind wanted a friend,/ a walking companion down the block today,/ he had my back all the way to the end,/ but when I turned around he slapped my face.// I sit in my room and watch him blow his horn,/ and last leaves left — fall dancing to his tune,/ they’re gold is spent, they're hold gone airborne,/ They alight on earth as light as a cloudy moon.// Inside I watch oak leaves race up the street/ then stop the chase, embrace a whirling swirling/ carried away, wind’s friend to feel earth-free/ as I’ll fly free when I’m finally unworlding.// I went for another walk in the freezing breeze,/ decided this friendship won’t always please./