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Week 5 Poetry Release, Larry Bourland Poetry, Durango Colorado.

"Our first month of website and blog episodes has been an incredible success because of your generous outreach to the interweb, making folks aware around the globe of our endeavors! THANK YOU! EVERY ONE OF YOU! We could not be reaching the numbers we’re reaching without your help. As long as you’re interested, we will continue to serve up creativity and offer a platform for your written, recorded, video, and artistic work. Together, we’re proving this to be a viable service for the small town to the international community. Thanks for working with us!

In the next 2 weeks, we will be offering the highly anticipated Featured Poet and Guest Artist features. If you have connections with poets, writers, painters, musicians, advertisers who you feel would be the perfect fit for our (your) website, email me with info, and I’ll reach out to them (

This week’s blog episode presents inspiration from the unspoiled world of childhood to the forgotten world of our cherished Veterans. I’ve included earlier works from my previous life that still influence my life today in a piece I’ve entitled “A Paddle Out.” If you’ve been there, then you know. You do not need to sit on a surfboard on a glassy fall day communing with nature or God to understand the importance of self-realization. You’ll understand. Fortunately, for me, I have a friend to thank for that very inspirational moment: a fellow Veteran who literally saved my soul, my dear friend Randy “Guzo” Re. We should all have a friend like Guzo.

I hope you enjoy this week’s previews as much as I have had writing them. Next week they will be moved to the Poetry/New Poetry sections with voiceovers. Try to determine if your interpretation of each remains the same after I relate my interpretation to you. Should be interesting. Enjoy!

As ever, Larry from Durango ❤️

Week 5 features the following poetry:


IN THE END  (Dedicated to my fellow Veterans)

He was in his 82nd year

when life moved on without him.


He’d seen it coming and was ready.

Finding it an interesting challenge,

preparations were made

myriad donations well executed,

a life quickly becoming uncluttered.


A minimal ending,

becoming a burden to none,

leaving him sated with delicious

memories of his collected books,

art, antiques, photographs, memories of family,

friends (famous and infamous).

ahh, it was the memories he loved the most.


For his final adventure

he left himself one pair of thread worn Levi’s,

favorite sandals, trusty walking shoes,

a classic black tuxedo, with matching accoutrement,

2 cargo shorts, 3 Hawaiian shirts, sunglasses, dapper Panama

and his signature Blackthorn Shillelagh.

He was destined to go in style and comfort until it was time to go.




Another lifetime after his departure

it was discovered he’d left behind a box addressed

To Whom.

Carefully packed back in his 24th year.


He spent his life reveling in the recollection

during his years reflecting

when he’d removed the medals from his uniform,

medals declaring his bravery,

his heroism, (which he always denied)

facing a forgotten enemy.

An enemy in desperate hatred to kill him

before he killed them.


Colorful ribbons destined to fade with time,

bright medals left to tarnish with age.

His memories, never

faded nor tarnished.

Memories, his true medals,  of those he fought with side by side,

laughed with


never reunited with,

never forgot,

always cherished,

always loved.


60 years on

a forgotten uniform now faded,


ancient-like yet

still neatly folded,

medals quietly tucked inside.


This private treasure may well remain hidden for

yet another 60 years on

only to be questioned

as to who was the warrior in this uniform

who earned these medals,

this hero of a forgotten war?

A forgotten hero

for such a short time in history.

And did any of it really matter?


It matters to us!




The wind was still


empty playground swings

swayed in memory,

staying limber

for the after-school crowd.


Echoes of laughter

could be seen

playing hide ‘n seek

between the quietly

rustling leaves of the

hundred-year-old oak trees.

Those majestic playground sentinels protecting children

from summer heat,

autumn winds,

winter snow.


Joyful laughter never leaves this place

as this is where the seeds of imagination are sowed.

Children grow,

move away

taking with them memories of

laughter shared,

unbridled happiness of

adolescent imaginings played out

absent concerns of worldly ills.

A time of true innocence to

revel and rejoice in.


Here the world seen through the eyes

of a child without the

clutter of definitions,

pure, innocent, wonder.


Our world is still

a child’s playground.

Let them play.

Let them be children

for just one more day…




I visit a local tavern

every night.

I sit at the bar,

there’s always a drink waiting for me.


No one else

comes to this tavern,

tended by a barkeep whose black vest

name tag reads “William”.

Even though there are other bartenders,

there’s only one vest.

(who knew taverns had uniformed personnel?)


“William” polishes the bar top

as if it’s his own personal classic car,

never meant to be driven again.

Only for show,

not for go.


An unseen jukebox,

volume down low,

slow bye-gone-era dance music

barely fills the air.

Music meant to merely distract.


I need never order a fresh drink

and I never see tonight’s “William” fill my glass,

he’s continuously polishing

the chrome headlamps of the back bar.


My eyes begin to redden

from the inside out,

eyelids blink slower.

I need to be home

before they quit all together.


Drinks are always on the house

but I leave a customary tip and a smile.


As I leave

I look over my shoulder

telling “William”, “Nice car!”

“Thanks. It’s a Duisenberg!”


A PADDLE OUT…for my friend, Guzo!

A paddle out

on a glorious

glassy fall day.


Board gliding effortlessly

through the still morning tide.

Mother Ocean herself the guide.

Other days her torrential waves

swirling eddies, unforgiving riptides

leave me just as breathless.


Paddling into the storm of her heart

I feel her pick me up

(The Step)

she has me

and I her.

She allows me

her solitude

as long as I show respect

and proper footing.


There’s a sound to surfing,

beyond the waves themselves,

the gliding

heard only when in her arms.


Sunsets and sunrises

are countless,

ever changing

yet predictable

to time and season.


This is God’s house.

A valuable old friends’ mantra

resides forever in my heart:

“This is my church!”


This Ain't Complete Without Spreading Your Cheeks

On cold the floor I stood so bare,

In underwear, an unusual affair.

Left and right, men in undress they share,

In a line we wait, a curious stare.

Getting ready to perform, a ritual so odd,

For the doctor's verdict, the moment a facade.

Suitable for service, the decision from the god,

Duck walk we must, through time's strange prod.

From one side of the room, to the other we waddle,

Spectacle repeated, our bodies in a muddle.

Physical prowess, this ritual's bizarre puddle,

In our underwear, we riddle and befuddle.

Time is awry, in this eccentric play,

Night into day, as we go on our way.

Doctor's decree, in this peculiar ballet,

A test of the mind where eccentricities on display.


Literature from and around Cortez Colorado (S.E.O.):

  • Local literature Colorado

  • Open Mic

  • Poetry Cortez Colorado

  • S.W. Colorado

  • Poet Durango Colorado

  • Poetry Durango Colorado

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