new poem on a Sunday morning

Sitting here on a warm Sunday morning, listening to Blues Traveler, and relaxing.

Strange week, but I'm durable. Nothing like having been battle-tested by life.

No Prototypes to Life

I've been up and down,
lost and found,
run to ground
and without a sound,
hunted to the edge of life.

Father and son,
finished what I've begun,
lost and won,
straight out of the gun,
husband to necessary wife.

Poet and prophet and profited little
in the hot noonday sun I've blood in my spittle
from the lows and the blows and God only knows,
back from the stars with bruises and scars my memory shows.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Hey, that came out okay.