"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 

"January Blue"

"January Blue"

Greg Budig 2021

January is blue with 

surrounded isolation.

Words are difficult. 

Wanting to sleep. 

Close your eyes. 

Hoping it all 

would just 

go away. 

Anticlimactic. 

After the seasons. 

Feelings are gone. 

Feelings alone. 

Entering into

 the start 

of the 

 year.  

Suddenly feeling 

too much to handle. 

Allowed to fall into

despair. Needing 

to keep busy and 

do something

creative 

again. 

Words on a page. 

Inspired by memory. 

Wanting to write 

before I forget. 

But then here I 

sit, wasting 

my life 

away. 

A glimmer of hope 

is all that is needed. 

Ambition is making 

 something that is 

new.  I need to 

wake up and 

start feeling 

again. 

The End 

"All That We Hate"

 

"All That We Hate"

Greg Budig 2021

Broken in faith. 

Our nation weeps.

We have become 

all that we hate.  

Ignorant, boastful, 

arrogant, spiteful, racist,

sexist, devoid of soul. 

All that we hate. 

National blindness. 

Blindness of faith. 

No lives matter. 

All that we hate. 

Fooled by tyrants. 

Ignorance rules. 

Where do you stand?

All that we hate. 

We the people. 

Unalienable rights. 

All are forgotten. 

All that we hate. 

Out nation is broken. 

Open your eyes. 

We have become 

all that we hate. 

The End 

"Broken Fence Posts"

 

"Broken Fence Posts"

Greg Budig 2021

Weathered smooth

like driftwood, the

fence posts battled

towards the horizon. 

Planted in prairie soil long 

before your birth,

long before anything.

Wires rusted into the dirt. 

Some are missing.  

Burned for heat. 

One felt the jolt of

 a lightning strike.

It splintered into charcoal 

and set the field ablaze. 

Some were replaced, 

 others remained. 

A lookout for 

red tailed hawks. 

A stage for singing 

meadowlarks. 

A boundary between 

left and right. 

A line between 

east and west. 

Prairie became property.

The rolling plains

turned into fields. 

Nature halted by 

man made limitations.

Broken, divided and claimed.  

Fence posts left broken. 

No one left to make repairs. 

The End 

"Stark Gray and White"

 

"Stark Gray and White"

Greg Budig 2021

Dividing the ice 

covered landscape. 

A horizon of stark

gray and white. 

The prairie has no 

sanctuary from the 

frozen blood chilled air. 

Absolutely none. 

Forgiveness is not 

something the plains 

hand out in January. 

Night settles in a 

suffocating grip.

Burrows are filled 

with sleeping

skunks and raccoons. 

The sloughs are frozen 

deep into the mud. 

Dried and hollowed 

cattails reach out from 

beneath the northwest 

driven, hard packed, 

dirt covered snow. 

Gritty cold snirt.

The End 

"Frost Has Covered"

 

"Frost Has Covered "

Greg Budig 2021

Frost has covered 

everything. 

The angular 

black branches 

of the twisted 

skeleton maple.

The green 

supple fingers 

of overgrown 

arborvitaes.

The solemn stone 

angel praying in 

the entombed garden. 

Crawling on the 

vines that have 

given up on spring. 

Cast iron chairs 

waiting on the patio,

dusted like stollen 

on Christmas eve.

The frost grows in 

fragile crystals.

Winter's excuse 

for morning dew.

The air itself has 

been powdered.

Particles of sunlight 

floating ghostly

against the 

muted sky. 

The End 

"Free Verse Variations"

 

"Free Verse Variations"

Greg Budig 2021

Leaded eyelids.

Heavy with sand. 

Forget about the 

garbage,  it can wait 

until next week. 

Putting things off is a 

major accomplishment,

so is opening your eyes. 

Emotionally spent. 

Holidays have passed. 

Reality sinks in like the 

frozen chilled fingers 

of January's grip. All is 

not lost.  It takes time 

to shed the joyful 

clothing of December.

Greeting the new year 

with the scepticism 

of an old farmer. 

Not quite sure if it's 

any better but willing 

to say "I told you so."

in the end. Years of 

despair I suppose. 

I live in the quiet

reflection that life 

leaves for dreamers. 

Many years spent in

ambitious endeavors. 

Sitting back now I think, 

what have I been doing 

all these years?

Beginning to wonder

where this is all going?

Words represent the

thoughts circling aimlessly

in your crowded mind. 

It makes you think...

"What the hell 

am I saying?"

Writing without 

purpose.  Thinking 

without knowing. 

Trying to fill the 

pages of a brand 

new empty year.

Wondering if there 

really is a difference. 

The End