Tag: Poetic Fool

Dragonfly Closeup – Rick Stephen


Sell Art Online

Click on image to view a larger version or to order a print.

Comment » | By the Poetic Fool, Nature, Photography

Selfless by Rick Stephen


\ˈsel-fləs\ adjective

having or showing great concern for other people
and little or no concern for yourself

a goal,
a dream,
for the self-centered fool
that I am,
an impossibility

Comment » | By the Poetic Fool, Definition Poetry, Life, Micropoetry, Relationships

Absence by Rick Stephen


/ˈabsəns/ noun

the state of being away from
a place or person,
the nonexistence
or lack of …

your touch,
your scent,
your way …

2 comments » | By the Poetic Fool, Definition Poetry, Life, Micropoetry, Relationships, Romance

Micropoetry – 5/24/2016 – Rick Stephen


girlwindowshe waited for him with
an abiding patience
yet he had worlds
to conquer
of which hers
was but one

6 comments » | By the Poetic Fool, Micropoetry

A Desert Mind – Micropoetry by Richard Stephen


will words ever flow
from this shriveled mind?

4 comments » | By the Poetic Fool, Life, Micropoetry, Writing

Found Memories by Rick Stephen


Found Memoriesbaseballglove1

In the back of the closet
of my old room
in my parent’s house
I found my old baseball mitt
in a box, creased and torn
barely held together
by yellowed packing tape
and full of things
Mom hadn’t the heart
to toss out
once I’d left home for good

Thank goodness
for it was, to me,
a box of memories
and at the bottom
under various and sundry toys,
photos and memorabilia
there it was, pressed flat
save the well-worn ball
cradled in its webbing
I picked it up slowly
like it deserved reverence

I looked it over, turning it in my hand
looking at the leather stitching,
the marks and mars of heavy use
my name, faded,
barely visible on the wrist strap
I slid my hand inside
tighter today than it was then
I fanned my fingers opening the glove
revealing the ball, more brown than white,
scuffed and scraped,
frayed red stitches running ’round it

I flipped the ball into the air
and was rewarded
with the pleasing sound
of ball striking glove
I buried my face in the cowhide
and the familiar smell
of leather and oil,
sweat, red dirt and grass
triggered strong memories
of a young boy

A young boy
simultaneously excited,
anxious and afraid
fidgeting, out in right field
praying the ball not come to him
but hoping that it would, waiting
for his chance to shine
and looking into the stands
for his Dad,
always there,
always cheering him on

Dad gave me this glove
it was old, used
money was tight around our house
but I didn’t mind, I understood
even at that tender age
Mom calling me for dinner
snapped me from the past
I had to pry the child’s glove
from the hand of a man
and pulling hard on the wrist strap
underneath, I saw what I’d not seen before

A name, not mine
“Billy” scrawled there, Dad’s name
mixed feelings flooded me
and I thought, why?
Why would he not tell me
this had been his glove?
Was he ashamed
he couldn’t afford a new one?
How did he not know this glove,
his glove, would be worth more to me
than all the gloves in the world?

10 comments » | By the Poetic Fool, Life

Micropoetry – 18-August-2014


as his lips roam
she quivers and moans
she shudders, she sighs
begging reprise

Comment » | By the Poetic Fool, Micropoetry, Romance

Summer Amnesia – Haiga by Richard Stephen

Summer Amnesia

Summer Amnesia

Comment » | By the Poetic Fool, Haiga, Nature

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