The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Sticks and Stones

There was a day when I was young
when I sat on a sunny curb
pondering a verdant patch.


Fingers sifted shiny stones
from wet blades of green
and sticks I loved to break.

Eyes spied granite sparkles
at the edge of bus-ridden blacktop
by the iron storm grate.

Shoes toyed in yesterday's rain 
Muddy rivers drained past
with leaf boats beaching on twigs.

Hand outstretched gripping
the stop sign pole
and swinging around in circles.

Straining to see to the end
of the street as cars turn by
whether that yellow-orange was coming.

Is today that day of waiting
for another bell to ring, books
 to read,

lunch and dinner and sleep?  I think
I have grown up, forgotten the sticks
and stones and swinging poles, but then
the bells in my head still ring.
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©2008 Mark Daniel Milbocker  All rights reserved.