The Old Swing Sings a Tired Song

Poetry

I sit on the porch
swinging into the night
the old swing sings a tired song
a rusty rhythm

It’s a gentle lull
capping the end of the day
tired and worn
the swing persists

The heavy dome of the eternal
sits above me, holding stars
the rusty squeak rises to meet them
a country sound on a hot summer night

Sitting beneath a dome of mysteries
the old swing sings a tired song
a country sound on a hot summer night
I sit on the porch

Poet’s note:

I love my porch swing. I love summer afternoons. These two things have come together to solve many of the world’s problems for me. They have come together to help me create, to imagine, to dream.

I miss them both. It is now the fall of 2020, the world is at a fever pitch from a Pandemic, heated Politics, and innumerable questions of social and economic justice. Summer days and the sweet song of that porch swing are both ghosts kindly haunting me.

I dusted this one off and wanted to share it with you. One magazine or another I had submitted it to didn’t accept it, but I saw too much of my own truth, my own passion, and my own soul in it to not share it. I know you’ve come a long way with me on this writing journey, so, I thought you might like seeing it.

I hope you enjoy.

— Greg

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