Poetry Here (Mostly)

Archive for April, 2012

After the Visit


 

Even as he pulls into my driveway,

and I’m happy that safely he is here,

inside I struggle with negative

projections that to him I don’t reveal.

 

Each day passes fast, then his visit ends.

Resigned, I’m on the porch to watch as he

packs his blue car with bags and gifts to take.

No tears, I will wave him out of my view.

 

I must not focus on such visions now

that he has just arrived, we have not hugged,

must reacquaint, me and this man, my son,

so tall, so bright his brain and smile, my boy.

 

Though when he departs, an adult again,

I’ll linger in his room, still cluttered but

then empty, and there I’ll write new poems

that fill space but do not lose the echo.

Problem with Eating Outside


Where the lonely path widened

enough for a picnic place,

they cuddled on a blanket,

a cozy and private world

that freed their inhibitions

and released confidences.

 

The stars encouraged brilliant

points of view, and sparkling wine

made life together rosy.

Intoxicated plans built

a heaven where they took turns

being the sun, then the moon.

 

Sandwiches and promises,

then they parted company,

both had to get up early.

But each tossed, turned, felt heartburn,

when they could not quite digest

one another’s baloney.

Storing Salvation


 

A satisfying pastime,
sorting through stuff at
the Salvation Army Store.
Me and other ragpickers 
searching for something special,
nothing in particular.

Buried in bins, strewn on shelves,
I’m surprised by amazing
values others gave away.
I have too many designer 
purses, none I purchased new,
plus crystal and collector plates.

Not hoarding, but planning good
use of the next-to-nothing priced
merchandise that I carry home.
I’ll download stuff on Ebay, soon,
and cash in on my unused, used
closet accumulations.

Meantime, I display some objet d’art:
the chiming clock, women in gilded 
kimonos on the painted vase. 
And, though Jim protests that I
present him with too many, 
he likes wearing a “new” silk tie.

I can’t keep up with yarn I have
collected, though most evenings
I continually crochet. 
Hats, scarves, potholders, shawls, and 
unpatterned odd creations. Still
I can’t pass up a donated skein.

Quality stuff among the junk,
impersonal and personal,
the latter sometimes makes me sad.
A smiling graduate, a babe 
in arms, a family group,
a grandma, or a staring old man. 

Castaways in pictures. How did they 
lose their status? Did someone no
longer care? Do any still survive,
or will it be their final end
when a buyer sees no worth in 
the faces and keeps only their frames.

Easter Over Half a Century Ago


  

Purple gave way to joyful white,

lilies looked altar perfect,

the choir resurrected hymns.

Facing priest, we followed him,

sat, knelt, stood, prayed together,

kept a Latin-metered rhythm.

 Sermon sent a stern reminder:

 clothes do not define the day,

 nor bunnies, nor jelly beans.

 Communion broke long fasting,

  confessed received wine-dipped Host,

  sinners sat wooden in pews.

 Priest: Dominus vobiscum

 Us:  Et cum spiritu tuo

 Priest: Ite Missa est.

 “Lord be with you,” “And with you,”

  “Go, you are dismissed,” he said.

 We replied: “Deo Gratias.”

“Thanks be to God!”  How very glad,

and new I felt in spring-bright coat,

and cute, flowered-straw bonnet.

Though Simplicity sewed my dress,

I proudly strolled home, patent

leather dangling, t-straps tapping.

Dormant gardens had begun

displaying the work of bulbs,

they bloomed with color, like me.

Mom always went early to Mass,

I knew she’d be cooking dinner,

but I looked forward to chocolate.

Writes of Spring


Mint, rosemary, and lemon
enhance my garden’s breeze
Roses bloom again this year,
lovely each variety.

Ladybugs, budding trees,
birds, and birds of paradise,
pomegranate’s red flowered,
tomato seeds growing fast.

Usual sky, blue and bright,
puffed clouds silent and sailing.
Such a day that’s come and gone,
once or twice I stepped outside.

This poem blew in, took root,
but weak, it does not dig deep,
unlike the garden that grows
with strong creative purpose.

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