Leaves of Time

Now crackled brown and always drifting

With the breeze they tumble, sifting.

I love the leaves, that sing their story

Of summer days and all their glory,

 

When dark brown limbs gave birth to green

That fluttered gently in the breeze,

 

Then pass their time, so it is with us

Our sap now dried and turned to crust.

 

The leaves of time blow in the wind

Reminding us of now and then,

 

Of our summers, blessed with sun

Our limbs so strong and primed to run.

 

Seems long ago, the days so bright

Our once strong limbs withered in the night

 

Growing soft, and growing old

No longer thoughts of strong and bold.

 

And now we’re drifting with the wind

The leaves of life, the weathered limbs.

 

 

        William Stroud

I Have a Thousand Poems

 

I have a thousand poems suffering to get out

 

If only I could find the voice to cut and slice and shout 

 

To the heavens look at me 

 

I have visions you should see 

 

Of how I lived and loved and flew 

 

Through blissful clouds and storm clouds too 

 

And shook the earth with such a roar 

 

That woke the heavens as I soared 

 

Now the mighty thoughts have fled 

 

But sometime as I lie in bed 

 

I dream again of blue stretched skies 

 

And once again my spirits rise.

Marching On

 

Marching On

 

I hear the footsteps marching on

The drumbeats hollow, the band is gone

And yet the sun still roams the sky

It all seems very different now

The sun glows dimly, I don’t know why.

Leaves still rustle teased by breeze

Life should be the same to me

My heart still beats in silent measure

More and more each beat I treasure.

They passed unnoticed in my youth

Those sunny days all hid the truth

Of growing old of passing youth.

Life so full, embraced each day

Sleepy dreams blew cares away

Now clouds and clarity of youth pass on

The charm of night, the creep of dawn

All my lonely promises fade on

But footsteps heavy still march along.

 

Ah, New Orleans

 

Ah, New Orleans, that decrepit old whore!

 

A face rife with fissures and echoes of jazz,

The half forgotten jazz that plays to ghosts, 

With notes of a lost generation and whiskey

Flavored by sugary stagnation.

 

Sit ‘n a bar, dine on oysters, with yesterday’s 

Stale recipes and coagulated sauces.

 

The diners come to say they’ve been here.

Oh, yes, I’ve seen the Street Car Named Desire,

And don’t know Tennessee Williams.

And Bill Faulkner?  Who is he?

 

And never heard Louis or Al blow their

Dented trumpets or Pete his licorice stick.

 

The streets reek of tawdry bodies sick with lust

 And find romance a bothersome chore.

 

Oh, yes, a weak old whore, with cracked teeth

And dusty hair.  See how her rouge has faded

And her mascara creeps down her legs.

 

A ragged whore whose beauty is blighted

And cracked with age, her hair a dusty mop.

 

But, bring your money and your sex, the old 

Girl needs it.

Christmas Yearnings: A Poem by William Stroud

Christmas Yearnings

I have lived a gypsy life

Of here and there and seldom twice.

Across high peaks and valleys wide

Over beaches washed by tides.

I’ve made fast friends in my sojourns

And for you all my heart still yearns.

With mellow yearnings, windy swirls

As the past around me curls.

And oh my family, oh my friends,

I long to find you once again

Across the oceans’ great divides

You come to me on rising tides

And whisper softly what was then

Of times and places that have been.

Though some have passed and some remain

All together once again.

                        ---William Stroud, Christmas 2019