The Last Day Of Summer


The last long summer day,
The last long summer afternoon,
The orange auburn light of the setting sun,
Hastening my play,
Delay, delay.

The air still and cool,
I am alone,
My friends called home,
Alone and still playing,
Delaying, delaying.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Still There?


When you were a baby,
When you cried and no one came,
When you cried and no one held you,
Or when someone finally came
But there was no comforting . . .

Now that you’re older
Do you hunger for affection?
Is the baby still there?
Still crying?
Can you ever let that baby go?


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Would You


With mortality on my aging mind
I lately wonder, dear one,
Which of us will be the first to go?

I wonder what should I do
If it’s you?

So much depends on the time and place
You leave the race
For the great beyond.

If I awake early some overcast morning
And stagger halfway to the kitchen
In desperate need of caffeine,
Then stop and return to our bedroom
For forgotten slippers,
Finding you breathless and cold,
Should I call 9-1-1 right away
In my sleepy state,
Or would it be wrong to have a cup of coffee,
Or two?
Would you object?
Would you?



~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Just One


Married so long,
No longer two.
Just one.

Still room for differentiation,
For contradiction,
For physical distinction,
(Of course.)

But observations,
Conclusions,
Products of two ingredients
In a single recipe.

The previously single being
Asserts on occasion,
Contends,
Yet soon retreats from soliloquy,
Unused to being alone.

Yes, that fearsome word,
Alone,
Ever threatening old lovers
Who will not live forever,
Who will lose the echo of the soul,
Married so long,
No longer two.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

When My Children Are In Bed


When my children are in bed
And story time is through,
Sitting in my easy chair
A certain sadness comes.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

The Wandering Time


This time of loss,
This wandering in the desert,
This desolation.

My father never told me,
Never warned me,
Never prepared me.

Perhaps he thought this time of loss
Was a private, personal weakness.

I saw him,
Bent by the weight of it,
Barely knowing
Yet suffering,
Keeping busy,
Distracted,
Not realizing,
Not acknowledging this other rite of passage,
Coming so late in life,
This time of loss,
This wandering in the desert,
This desolation.

My father’s ghost is with me now
In this, my wandering time.
I cannot tell if he knows the way.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved