At the Side of the Years

By Daniel Hargrove

This book of thirty-four poems is completely free for your perusal and enjoyment. Please feel free to review and/or comment, I would love to hear what you think! This is my fifth free book, and there are three more to follow. You can find the rest of my books here if you find this to be amusing or enlightening. Hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Hargrove
• Release date: Apr 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311767509

Daniel Hargrove

As poets go, Daniel Hargrove is pretty OK. His poems range from the sappy and sentimental to the arcane and dangerous to the dark and laughable. And when I say laughable, I mean in the sense that you may rofl, lmao, or even, in extreme circumstances, LOL!Writing poetry is hard work, and Dan has given up entirely in favor of smoking cigars and drinking coffee. For this reason, he is taking it upon himself to sort through the endless and tiresome formatting rules, changes, and outright demands that his cohorts in the publishing industry have seen fit to belabor us with, and dumb down all his books to fit the bill.As a consolation prize, he is offering a crisp clean $20 dollar bill to anyone who 1) Reads all his books all the way through, and proves it in an email by naming a word in the second poem in each book and counting the words up to that word, giving a number as reference, also 2) Supplying an address or P.O. box where I can mail the money, and 3) Leaving a review that is at least 50 words in length for at least one book. Sincerely hope you enjoy your sentence!

Book preview

At the Side of the Years

Don't stand in judgment of the young

for they learn faster than a bird flies South;

they, unlike the fossil stem,

vine, spring and twining, into breach...

and what, unknown to hatchling chick

is known to crusty hen and hay,

but crowing rooster's strut and comb

who pecks so surely at the toss of feed?

What fire is this, that catches, but

at the splash of wave, and the bite of gold?

And what heaven, cold, has swallowed me up,

as my body has warmed to the winter snows?

Lay the years 'neath a loamy bed,

and wet, to sing, to the sun's warm touch,

in the early months of the wild green bloom

fed by the glacier's trickling rush.

What of the ice after harvest moon?

And what of the reaper's hollow swath?

Know we all, that always has wrought?

And all, that never has fetched to the loom?

One Morning

Elegant lace birds

drawing sun-up's sweetness

from the morning air...

the moon is down, you see,

they joke.

The dawn is studying

a passage from their melody

and grows glad

as their words grow lighter

and float upward,

you know.

A blue more buoyant

with each passing moment

I see

fills the deep sky,

or so we should presume.

Dark green leafy