Roshi Hogan Poetry



For the aging man

The passing of days is merciless

He waits for the unsaid

One foot in the grave

And another on a patch of ice



His afternoons are slow

But time speeds past

He longs for the old days

Some of which he can’t remember

But he wants them anyway



The body is now frail

The hair gray or gone

Stranger in the mirror

Looks at him with dark eyes

Those that know what is coming
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 I enjoy a cool and rainy day

Days that most others don’t

I enjoy a sunny day now and then

But I’ve always been most comfortable

in a cool damp mist



Somewhere in the overcast skies

A spirit or some such thing

Is awakened inside

Though I’m not sure that’s what it is

Or if it really exists



All I know is a kind of oneness

An extension of myself

Going out and falling among the trees

And the wet streets

That I walk

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The day I did nothing
But lay in bed until five p.m.
Was the best day of work
I have ever done
The day I learned how to live
From watching the passing clouds
On a small patch of grass
On a fall day
Was of far greater value
Than all my years of learning
In a brick and mortar school
The day I gazed out the window
For hours and hours
And watched the snowflakes
Fall into their perfect resting places
Told me more than I could ever be told
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One side of his family had been English
Classy, stylish
Earl Grey tea from the bone china cup
Expert gardeners, bowler hats
The other side of the family had been from Russia
Exciting, dangerous
Vodka straight from the bottle
Cossacks on horses
He himself was from American middle class suburbia
And he hated himself for it
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There was the old house
With the green swirly carpet
And the big TV antenna outside
That somehow only got three channels
And then there was the house with the cerulean blue carpet
That we said was so perfect for a place in Florida
Where the rain played drums
On the metal roof of the porch


These were houses, but not home
Home was where
We had the bright red carpet in the bedroom
And in the coolness of the basement
We listened to music late at night
And pretended we were popular

Sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep
The leaves continue to fall
My broom is tired

---
As the snow falls

My mind falls away
Melting into the ground

---
Gazing at the moon
Wondering how it got there
A hot cup of tea

----
Raindrop on window
Reaches its destination
You have come so far

---
Yin is in yang
Yang is in yin
I am in pajamas

---
Do the stars look down?
What do they see?
What must be their dreams?
Listening to the music

All alone in the dark basement 
Pretending to be popular
---
Opening the blinds
On a chilly day and sitting
On the floor in the sun

---
I watch the dogs play
Under the sprawling old oaks
By the cemetery

---
On the way to work
She dreams of missing the exit
Going anywhere else

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