Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Old Friends

On the porch, we toast the starlight,
blow out the candles,
and allow the dark to disembody
shape from voice.
Bright as those stars, the memories
of a shared past arrive
as if they blazed just a moment ago.
Like fireflies courting
in the yard, our conversation flickers,
interspaced with silence,
blurred by the sips of scotch between.
Despite your early
departure tomorrow, bedtime’s hour
is forgotten, along with
the shape of words tangled beyond
a tongue’s sure grip.
Discombobulated by the starlight,
instead of speaking,
telepathy soon becomes loquacious.

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Royals Of Summer

We were the royals of Summer,
tanned nut-brown,
laying claim to kingdoms
made expansive with
the help of our imaginations:
concrete driveways
chalk-marked for hopscotch,
a government
proclaiming its own rules on
the unforgiving
blacktopped playgrounds,
seeding weed-
infested fields with bases for
evening whiffle ball.
Disputes adjudicated by
the lineage of
one’s age and growth spurt.
With no fear of
school, until dark declared
a temporary stay,
we imbued the shadows
with our majesty.
Claiming light’s abundance
as our realm,
we denied the possibility
of the classroom.
Royalty destined for a Fall.

Pallbearers

Heavy rains have toppled
the peonies.
Supplicants on their knees,
only a stake
will elevate them again to
resurrect in
tomorrow’s brilliant sun.
But what good
is a shoulder for those
who acknowledge
their season has passed?
Casting perfume
to dawn’s wind, the notice
of an extravagant
youth already spent has
been widely
broadcast to the backyard.
Attending to
the remains, pallbearers
have begun to
congregate – bees and
ants honoring
Spring’s first casualties.

It’s The Little Things

Just as towels
must be folded precisely
along the crease,
she follows in the wake
of my dusting
to nudge photographs
and knick-
knacks back into place.

After decades
of married life, stasis
is preserved by
accepting the other’s
sacred rituals,
even if agnostic and
not subscribing
to that particular faith.

But rebellion,
too, is a healthy release,
even if the battle
goes unacknowledged,
as in the case
of our bathroom rug,
continually being
rearranged by an inch.

Facade

Its neighborhoods gentrified,
architecturally first class,
crisscrossed with power lines,
parks groomed of litter,
and ponds tamed to a ripple,
how well appointed it
appears under faint starlight;
even the infiltrating wild-
life blends harmoniously into
this cultural mash-up.
But troubled by nightmares,
awoken after midnight,
it questions if that was a car
backfiring or a gunshot.
A lingering dream still haunts,
of every street flooded
beyond the resuscitation of
insurance’s magic wand.
After decades of indulgence,
sleepless and bloated,
confronting its own mortality,
this metropolis lies awake,
wondering if it is all a facade.

September Explained

Where a month ago
we sat wearing sunglasses
a streetlight snaps on

With school in session,
curfew’s nine o’clock siren
seems superfluous

Dawn’s loud orchestra
reduced to the dull drone of
these cricketing strings

Now that light is not
an alarm, a clock must serve
as today’s first nudge

Not in Fall’s lineup,
temperate days are merely
a season’s reruns

Survivor

Backyard birch,
brittle and steadily peeling,
with every harsh
blow it sloughs debris.

The weathering
of decades has twisted
its chalky spine
beyond straightening.

Having outlasted
droughts and winters’
bitter winds,
submissively, it stoops.

The arthritic ache
of gravity’s persistent
wrenching has
gnarled its fragile limbs.

Never majestic,
and certainly not burly,
how lost it seems
among towering pines.

And yet, the chosen
throne for royalty, come
dawn’s arrival,
it hosts a cardinal’s song.