JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

There is a needle buried deep

underground, almost lost in some dark place

rusted, forgotten, it hardly disturbs the sleep

and in the eyes and in the heart almost no trace

 

There is a nail attached to wood

that built a house, a fence with posts

long buried it rots among some roots

the hand that forged it now a ghost’s

 

There is a memory of a child

who splashed through streams and rolled down hills

games and pranks that once ran wild

so uncaring then of slips or spills

 

Thoughts of nails and needles lost in rain

and in their place – pain, pain, pain