Gerry Boyd's Poetry

Death comes in a cloak that is hard to recognize.
I was walking near Azalea Park when I saw a spray
of blossoms that could've brought some yellow  joy.

The language of sunset portraits hieroglyphs of light
which, wisely. the palm fronds ignore. Watched from
a distance on high, through grey aluminum uprights

A body found on beach at Sea Bright turns on sand
and breathes: coughs a gnarled seaweed at the tide
and saves his soul.: what was alive on a fairy strand

When the grey rain comes drowning though pastel,
washing a turquoise bench near two curved palms,
sadness. A numbness in red hard hands and sandals