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Whiskey Bottles (poem 1) and The Old Green Lady (poem 2)

Whiskey Bottles or The Men in Rags

With twisted hats
And wrinkled coats,
In hobos hands
They come atote.

Whiskey bottles
Clothed in paper bags,
The men in rags
Stand shivering.

The Old Green Lady

An old rock wall
With an iron gate.
I pass on through
Then hesitate.

Aged headstones
Covered with moss.
Eerily do I . . .
. . . Come across.

The cool night fog
Hangs damp and still.
I wonder what's
upon that hill.

A large oak tree
Moon lit yet shady.
Gives refuge to
the Old Green Lady

Her clothes are ragged
Tattered and torn.
And on her feet
Leather boots are worn.

A black knit shawl
Hung over her shoulder.
For as night time wanes,
The air grows colder.

Rising slowly . . .
. . . As she dances.
She fades into
The twisted branches.

A scarier site
I've yet to see.
That Old Green Lady
Has frightened me.

Anxious though
And tempting fate.
I'll return tomorrow
Lest I be late.

Would you care to join me?

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Jon Contrastano wrote, “Just looking for comments on my writing.”

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