Two poems. By G David Schwartz

Aren't We Mean

Dedicated to Michelle E. Schwartz


Aren’t we mean?
Are we sick?
We take what carries our milk
Not those glass containers
But the utters of the cow
And then we go ka-plough
And as a mistake
We make a meal of steak
Yes we are mean
From fishing in the sea
We create
An amusing meal
Which once had a face.


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My Dear Friend

My dear fiend, love of my life
Hold me atop all the strife
Just holding my hand
So wrinkled gray
What more can I say except
My dear, dear friend
Up until the end
I will always be
In love with you
And if you forget
I shall remind you
From many years
Ago in a fog
I made no promise
But I did log
All of my memories
Into your face
And so now
Tell me how
I can think of you as
Anything but
My dear, dear friend


* * * * *

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