"Earthworms and Decay""

Earthworms and Decay

Spring is 

Wet with mud.

Thawing fields 

Smell thick with 

Earthworms and decay. 

Black, brown 

And well worn 

Shades of amber. 

Landscapes emerge 

From crusts of tainted snow. 

The fog

Has entombed an 

Atmosphere of change. 

The world is 

Gray and blurred.

The wet 

Cold air climbs 

Under your skin 

And into your bones

And sits there for a while

Spring 

Arrives in disguises. 

Coats of snow worn 

In confusion and dismay. 

Soon it melts into the  river. 

The passing of

The equinox is complete.

The sun stays 

To visit us and

Spends the afternoon. 

"Random Thoughts"

 

"Random Thoughts" 

("In the Middle of the Night")

Greg Budig 2021

Is there sometimes 

 too much life to 

be had in a small 

span of time? 

Still scarred by

grief. Becoming 

tangled in the dark

that lives in all who 

claim to be human.

Loss comes 

too quickly but the 

pain lingers inside. 

Numbness settles on 

the fragility of the soul.

Acting to retain a 

little part of sanity. 

Creating the 

illusion of life. 

Finding lost

pieces of a broken 

 mosaic. The pieces no 

longer add up to the whole. 

Losing is only a part 

of the process. 

It still hurts 

to know 

you are 

gone. 

Walking on the 

thin line between 

falling and rising.

Concentrating on 

staying level and sane.

Time cannot heal if 

you lose track. 

Unable to 

know who

I am. 

The End 

"Inspiration Lost"

"Inspiration Lost"

Greg Budig 2021

Inspiration comes 

easy when you are 

blissfully unprepared. 

Perfect words fill 

your head and you 

have no way to 

write them 

down.

Memory cannot 

be trusted. Certain 

words end up like chaff.

They blow loosely across 

your neighbor's field

and are scattered

into the 

dark. 

Eyes closed, you 

meditate to capture 

the idea again. 

Feverishly trying 

to recreate the 

vague feeling of a 

strange and distant 

thought.

Inspiration is as

fleeting as small

sparrows that dart

through the hedge. 

Coming in from 

nowhere and then 

suddenly they 

are gone.

Patch together 

remembered words 

and then blindly 

fill in the gaps. 

Satisfied but 

knowing that the 

inspiration is 

sadly lost. 

The End 

"Awake"

 

"Awake"

Greg Budig 2021

Awake before the 

noble sun climbs to 

peek above the horizon. 

Before the stars 

stopped talking to each 

other and finally went 

back to sleep.

Before the scarf

of morning light is 

 loosely draped across 

the tranquil sky.

Before the songs of 

black legged crickets have

 slowly faded into the 

tangled dark. 

Before the farm

house light is switched 

and the coffee pot 

sputters and groans. 

Before the hound is 

finally let out after 

pacing like an 

impatient child. 

Before the dew 

has accumulated upon 

the lilac branches 

and leaves. 

Before we see the 

sky itself wake up 

and put on it's 

new clothes. 

The End 

"Far Off Afternoon"

"Far Off Afternoon"

Greg Budig 2021

The idea of doing 

something has long 

been neglected. 

I have grown old. 

I have grown tired. 

Grindstones no longer 

interest my nose.

Stepping off the wheel. 

Afternoons spent 

inspecting the horizon. 

Wondering whether or 

not if it will rain.  

Clouds in the distance 

gathering crowd like.

Are they discussing 

what they want to do?

Time so much spent 

on wasted diversions. 

Wondering, blundering 

full steam ahead. 

Forty plus years of 

following orders. 

Watching the clock 

till it's time to go home. 

Irresponsibly staying 

so idle.  What am I 

doing on this far 

off afternoon?

Is there a reason for 

feeling so disrespectful?

Wouldn't you rather sit 

waiting for the rain?

The End 

"Warmer Thoughts"

 

"Warmer Thoughts"

Greg Budig 2021

In January

you reach a point 

where you don't

 even care anymore. 

Sterile, continuous cold 

invades your brain 

and body. You are 

numb to it all. 

Daydreaming 

of warm June nights 

and summer afternoons 

is strongly advised. 

Smelling wetness and 

lilacs in the slow moving 

progression of the morning.

Listening for robins. 

Sweetness in the 

smell of new cut lawns. 

The lake scented feel 

of a July afternoon. 

Frogs are peeping in 

grass flooded ditches. 

Calling each other to 

stop by for a drink. 

August gardens are 

heavy and bloated. 

Overgrown plants are 

heavy with fruit. 

Weekends sit lazy and 

fat from indulgence. 

Sunfish are feasting as they 

break the water mirror. 

Waking at midnight 

to calling, sleek nighthawks. 

Exchanging greetings with 

wandering brown bats.

Alone in the garden to 

sit with geraniums. 

Breathing the air that 

is heavy with bees.

Thunder is rolling 

from the distant gray.

The air is scented with 

sweet summer rain. 

Setting the sun behind 

far away shorelines.

Spending the evening 

chasing the stars. 

The End 

"The Treeline Disappeared"

 

"The Treeline Disappeared"

Greg Budig 2021

Midnight I heard the 

windows creak as the north 

wind rushed the house. 

Roaring against the 

old wood siding, it 

curled around to

the snowbound 

frosted back door. 

Snow had been piling 

up all day since the sky

 turned dark around noon. 

Filling up the yards and 

ditches, leaving the 

horizon blurred 

as the treeline 

disappeared. 

Everything has 

become white. 

The roads, the sky, 

even the air itself has 

turned hazy in the 

embrace of the 

wind and the thick 

drifting snow. 

Staring out the 

window is about 

all there is to do. 

Encased inside your 

snowbound house, safe 

from the blizzard swarm, 

you sit and watch the 

world close down. 

The End 

"Pomme de Terre"

 

"Pomme de Terre"

Greg Budig 2021

Reflecting the sky.

Winding slowly through 

bovine rich pastures. 

Following the contours 

left by the glaciers. 

Wandering it's 

way to the 

pelican gulf.

Stare at the ripples 

smoothly flowing 

through the cattails. 

Shimmering diamonds that

reflect through the stream. 

The river is singing, softly

slow moving, dancing 

around the bend. 

A voice quite soothing 

as it laughs at the 

shoreline. It gurgles 

and mumbles by the 

algae green stones. 

Trickling music carried

downstream by minnows,

turtles and frogs. 

Swept beneath bridges 

and beside gravel 

roadways, it moves like 

a serpent as it winds 

its way home. 

In the summer it's lazy.

 In spring it grows wide. 

In winter it falls into sleep. 

The End 

"Brittle Air"

"Brittle Air "

Greg Budig 2021

All around town 

morning engines 

are groaning. 

Trying to turn over,

frozen in place. 

Explosions of gas 

inside each ice 

gripped piston.

The horizon is set in 

sharp distinct colors. 

The atmosphere brittle 

as thin panes of glass. 

A line of orange red sits 

on top of the snow drifts. 

The sun rise appears above 

the wind driven fields.

It gets hard to 

breathe in the 

sharp, brittle air. 

Lungs become 

fragile as the cold 

breath invades.

I begin to soon wonder,

"Why am I here?"

The End