Tag Archives: life


18 Apr



By L. Stewart Marsden

What sole soul has not reached a place
Where her measured pace
Becomes little more than plodding forward,
Bracing against wind and rain and cold,
Aging older and older,
Too tired to tow another burden or bear
Another day or hour or minute or instance?

Are you so immune and protected?
Do you not detect this march is unto death and beyond?
Can you so carelessly wave off the sharpness of
The wind,
The rain,
The cold,
To be so recklessly bold that you feel sealed against
Their cutting edges,
Never to bleed?










On the Savannah

16 Nov


On the Savannah

By L. Stewart Marsden

On the Savannah
Death stalks and waits
In every field of grass
Under each watering hole
For the unwary
Or the weak
Or those left behind;

The kind of strife that daily
Rises in the east and never sets;

Jaws and teeth led by smell and struggle and blood

Yet amply gives and hides in such a way
That prey pray for another day
To continue
And thrive
On the Savannah.

The Hen House

19 Dec

The Hen House

By L. Stewart Marsden


They prattled, rattled, clucked and parried –

Yet none were bedded, none were married;

And all their eggs, collected daily,

Served to kings and queens and more

On silvered platters, gaily garnered;

Sprigged with parsley, tarragon;

Yet none increased their nest nor home,

Were doomed to scratch and peck and roam

In dusty yards with fenced-in views

Until their necks were cut clean through

For Sunday’s after-worship dinner.


Copyright © by Lawrence S. Marsden, 19 December, 2014

Ogres and trolls

3 Aug

Where I work
we are ogres and trolls —
slogging and drooling our eight-hour chores,
rarely acknowledging anyone there —
perhaps a quick a grunt — not a lot more.

The vacuous caverns we toil in all day
are dark, uninviting;
created to keep us on task
till the last minute ticks at the end of our shift
when we robot-like march to our homes
and our wives,
to eat, drink and sleep —
avoiding examining much of our lives
beyond paying the rent and buying our food.

Little more really matters.
What’s exactly the good
of dreaming of possibly anything else?

We are ogres and trolls
and content with our selfs.

To Betsey

8 Jun

To Betsey

Touching things we all must face:
the corners and the halt detours,
I’m glad to have known you in this race —
and know that, too, as age slows pace,
we will meet up once more;
at, perhaps that very door
that ushers all from one to next;
and we’ll embrace, hug each’s neck
and shed great tears of joy
and peals of laughter looking after
what has gone before
and what will be
for you and me
and all we know and see
along that endless eternity.