personal poems writing

Unusual March with Bobo

The discarded oak leaves shone
as autumn’s fruits in the evergreen bush.
The rain pointed the way home and we followed,
me on one end of the leash, and Bobo on the other.
Sometimes I lead, sometimes I didn’t – but I never was the master.

 The morning sun was sleeping in beneath an army throw.
As a drunk drummer’s fingers on the parchment of the drum,
the falling drops struck the pools that sprouted in the street
marking a stuttering rhythm of ungainly progress
for Bobo and I, walking back home under the pouring rain.

Victoria, November 1st of 2010

(view as a story)


By Alioscha

Born in Buenos Aires, a teenager in Madrid, an adult in Victoria, BC - what a mess!

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