Tuesday, February 1, 2022





My Dad Had Apple Trees


My dad had apple trees that he loved more than he did some of us

They were icy gray and dead to the touch in winter

The cold air froze them in place stagnant and quiet

But they were secretly alive and though they seemed barren and lost in February

Spring brought pink blossoms that were born from each colorless frame

An umbrella of soft pink skin from which juicy red fruit sprung by July

They just needed the time


My dad was a Minister of The Gospel

He believed in life everlasting and that God is Love

We ate his apples and marveled that he could manage such a process

With his head so far into the sky dreaming of a place that none of us could see

While the leaves turned glossy green and shielded us beneath each canopy

And the heart-shaped fruit grew and hung as heavy as the now pliant limbs

Could hold bent just above the warm dark turf


We never saw the connection between the eternal and the cyclical

That which is ever changing always evolving into the thing it already has been

Eternal is forever but is never the same from moment to moment

Except that it is exactly the way it was last year of the same season

It is the rolling wheel turning toward its own horizon growing until the end

Which is yet the beginning of what is to be as it was and will be again

This is the way of love and it lasts eternal but it is only the same for a moment


As are we — never ending ever changing forever and ever



Ecce Homo


Ecce homo he announced as I neared the door

I could hear the droning of the conversations in the next room

The prattle of after dinner plans and tomorrow’s tasks to come

Then I entered and a few of the heads turned quick toward me

Then back like disrupted chickens in mid peck

Back to their world of talk and their tripartite meal


I took their notice and walked with it to my corner

There I could sit quiet without requiring anything else

There I commune with my thoughts which go no further than my fingers.

To be in a room nearly frantic with the echoes of silverware scratching china

Where I might reach out and touch with my words another human life

But I am not included because like all the other times I do not know how to be


Maybe we were always communal in our feedings in our comings and our goings

Did we always know lonely or was it a learned consideration

There’s a game here with rules above the other animals and me

One must know when to make a move or retreat to lower or to raise a glass

I was never any good at it not at this or any other of our games

My ex told me I was socially retarded before she left with her friends for the evening buffet






Her love rises from the deep dark sea.

To take my life every day.

As I sink down ardently into her depths,

I feel the release of all her way.

Each moment in love yields

Another noble deed done of necessity

To focus her upon our life

And so guide us toward our destiny.


Such love is need with requisite joy

And to begin these days fly by

In discovery of each other’s thoughts

And tingling bodies new to touch and lover’s eye.

But there is no promise that remains for life

Against the slaughter of hurt filled daily strife.




He is my brother and I love him

Enough to share my daily moments

And to stand beside his broad shoulders

Against any and all opponents.

To give and take with him

Creates a smooth and speedy highway

Where we can go together

And achieve life’s goals midway.


Each minute is like years

When we are forced to be apart.

Facing life’s choices and chances

Alone becomes a desperate art,

While a well-matched kindred pair 

Will bring comfort forth into the careless air. 




Love is truly adoration

When the loved one becomes as all.

A life dedicated to the service of her

Focuses effort against the constant sprawl

Of conflicting forces that often sends fates

Off course into wobbled orbits scattered and lost

Where purpose becomes uncertain even forgotten

And the seeker’s unfound joy becomes the cost.


In all the days that we are given

Love can guide the way to find

One’s purpose to breathe and move and be.

Venality or simple lack of mind

Ends with this generation denying dedication

Unless someone or thing wakes up the nation.




DON EDWARDS is working on his fifth book of poetry.  He is also the founding member of True Gospel Bookstore which records his poems as songs and releases them to all streaming services.  “Get Me Out Of Here Blues” is the latest release.  His songs and some of his poems may be found on the website, www.truegospelbookstore.com.  He lives in Los Angeles.

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