"Broken Glasses "

 

"Broken Glasses"

Greg Budig 2022

I've never had to 

wear them. Even after 

years of reading, drawing and 

just plain looking at things. 

I've never had to wear them. 

Age has again 

betrayed me. I can see 

the graceful hawk circle against 

the cerulean blue of the late

summer afternoon… but I 

cannot read a box of 

macaroni and cheese. 

And so I wear them. 

Dollar store cheaters

magnified to fix my blurry eyes.  

Stepped on, sat on, lost beneath my 

chair. The hinges break too easily. 

My side table holds 

many pairs. 

The End. 

 

"State of the Mind"

"State of the Mind"

Greg Budig 2022

State of the mind.

Self absorbed, 

isolated, guarded.

No longer willing 

to deal with the current 

charade of today's society.

Is this where grief and 

loss have left you or 

is this just where 

you decided 

to stay?

This was not 

supposed to happen, 

but it happened just the same. 

Just wanting to survive.

Fragility of the mind.

First succumbing to 

a paralyzing grief.

Suffocating sadness. 

Time passed, 

grief subsided. 

Now only 

loneliness survives.

How pathetic 

the existence of 

a depressed mind…

unless it's yours. 

The End 

"Hibernation"

 

"Hibernation"

Greg Budig 2022

January is darkness. 

Month long despair.

Dreaming of 

a nocturnal existence.

Suspended animation. 

Rest, drowsiness,

somnolence.

This desire is maddening. 

Unable to stay conscious. 

Sleeping for a month. 

Curled into a den of 

blankets and pillows, 

comforters and 

fleece. 

Blissfully closing your 

eyes and mind to 

the frozen world. 

No longer wanting 

to take part 

in reality. 

Shutting down. 

Mornings into days, 

evenings into nights. 

Not wanting to stir from 

sweet restful slumber. 

No longer taking 

part in the chaos. 

Hibernation.

The End 

"Life Suspended"

"Life Suspended"

Greg Budig 2022

Solitude surrounded us. 

Isolation became part of 

our new existence. 

We were told to 

"Stay safe" 

and 

"Be well."

Becoming invalids 

of circumstances.

We hid inside split level bunkers

waiting for the news of 

the world. Sick of 

hearing about 

"The new 

normal".

We grew tired of 

adapting. Of living without.

 Of losing ourselves. I could not 

return to what life once was. 

That life had died and so did I. 

I struggle each day to 

find my way back

from living in a 

life suspended.

The End. 

"Lost Sense of Time"

"Lost Sense of Time"

Greg Budig 2022

Midnight... or 

somewhere 

around there. 

Eyes feeling slightly 

cracked, barely open

and out of focus. 

The TV is still on.

Learned how cabbage 

soup is made in Poland. 

Feel hungry for crackers.

Wandering to the 

kitchen and then 

the bathroom.

Every two hours. 

Like clockwork. 

Almost one o'clock. 

Book on the 

nightstand. 

Morning poems 

by Robert Bly. 

Intoxicating words. 

Eloquent language. 

Memorable passages 

that I no longer recall. 

Ordinary people 

with ordinary lives. 

Feeling transformed... 

 but still a little hungry. 

Stumbling back into 

the bathroom.

Must be almost 

three o'clock. 

Doodles 

in a sketch pad.

Eraser crumbs fall 

everywhere. 

Dozens of 

scribbled eye balls all 

staring lost into the 

boundless complexity 

of the universe. 

Abandoned projects 

revived… again. 

Poetry is written 

on my phone, same 

as my food orders. 

Looks to be 

almost five o'clock. 

I should really 

get some

sleep.

The End 

"Modern Politics"

 

Modern Politics

Creeping into the 

Public psyche.  

A cheater's grin 

And waving the flag.

Riding an escalator 

Into the shopping 

Mall of ignorance. 

The grifter is looking 

For an easy mark.

Kool-aid cocktails 

Of lies laced with 

Hatred and stirred 

With misinformation. 

So amazed at those 

Who swallowed 

Every drop. 

How sad the 

Gullible must be. 

Saying anything to 

Appease the created 

Monster. A twisted actor 

Dancing for the crowd. 

How can you believe 

The promises of a liar? 

Don't let the facts 

Confuse you of 

What you believe. 

"Night Sounds"

"Night Sounds"

Greg Budig 2022

The furnace clicks, 

ignition is made. 

Rumbling in the 

distant corner 

of the basement. 

Building up heat. 

The rush of warm 

air now travels 

through the house.

Ticking clocks in 

every room. 

Rhythmic, steady, 

a hypnotic pace.

Compressors buzz. 

Refrigerators shudder.

Ice cubes fall into place.

Somewhere a tired 

faucet drips.

Through winter tight 

windows a train 

whistle calls. 

Far away and 

lonesome on this 

January night. 

A siren calls slowly 

as it cracks the 

frozen thin air. 

Well below zero 

the frigid air makes 

the rafters settle.

Popping nails cause 

the house to boom!

The cat begins to stir.

The furnace continues 

humming as you fall 

back into dreams. 

The End 

"Being Profound"

 

Being Profound

Time is wasted trying 

To be profound. 

Simplicity is the key 

To communication. 

Finding the words 

Is not always easy. 

Being honest is 

The best explanation. 

Do I even know what 

I'm writing about?

Am I using the 

Correct information?

Trying to be so clever 

Does not always work. 

Just follow your 

Own inspiration. 

Serious poets are 

Using serious words.

Breathing life into a 

Serious interpretation!!

Sometimes you get 

So full of yourself. 

It's a strange form

of word masturbation.

So what is the purpose of 

This collection of thoughts?

I have yet to find this 

Poem's realization. 

And just how far can this 

Gimmick be stretched?

Before I tire of this 

Whole abomination. 

"Winter Night Sounds"

"Winter Night Sounds"

Greg Budig 2022

The furnace clicks, 

ignition is made. 

Rumbling in the 

distant corner 

of the basement. 

Building up heat. 

The rush of warm 

air now travels 

through the house.

Ticking clocks in 

every room. 

Rhythmic, steady, 

a hypnotic pace.

Compressors buzz. 

Refrigerators shudder.

Ice cubes fall into place.

Somewhere a tired 

faucet drips.

Through winter tight 

windows a train 

whistle calls. 

Far away and 

lonesome on this 

January night. 

A siren calls slowly 

as it cracks the 

frozen thin air. 

Well below zero 

the frigid air makes 

the rafters settle.

Popping nails cause 

the house to boom!

The cat begins to stir.

The furnace continues 

humming as you fall 

back into dreams. 

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 

ice gripped pistons.

Blocks of cold metal 

stutter back into life. 

Sunrise is set into 

sharp distinct colors. 

Atmospheres feel like 

panes of thin glass. 

Orange and red 

glow against the 

ice blue horizon.

Appearing lifeless 

the sun slowly climbs. 

It gets hard to breathe 

in this sharp, brittle air. 

Lungs become fragile as 

each cold breath invades.

The frozen glass inside 

the car slowly thaws.

I begin to soon wonder,

"Why am I here?"

The End