Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Setting The Stage

A bee or two
in search of hardy perennials

An orchestra of
crickets culled to a quartet

Every cobweb
flung now entangles only wind

Migrating birds
sprout in the place of leaves

Clocks turned back
no longer hurry for the dawn

The stage has been
set for November’s arrival

Soon all will
burrow into sleep’s warmth

But not quite yet…

A curtain rises to
reveal tonight’s pantomime

An aurora borealis
recreating the fourth of July

Advertisements

At The End Of Day’s Haste

With dusk’s arrival, a father collects the clutter
from his children’s day at play.
Set loose after their milking, a string of cows
unravels into moonlit fields.
Brothers who weren’t speaking before bedtime
curl together in the dark of sleep.
Dishes attended to, a mother slips off apron
and shoes, comfortable at last.
Tired bones settle into their favorite chair,
a bird its darkening maple,
one hand seeks another beneath the sheets.
At the end of day’s haste,
husband and wife now contentedly adjacent.

Quiet As The Evening

Quiet as the evening
Father returned home from work
after laboring
to make our dreams come true.
If he had any
of his own, he never did let on.
Bone tired, he was
aways getting dark too soon,
totally vanishing
into the silence of his fatigue.
Quiet as the evening
we children learned it was best
not to make demands
upon his attention or affection.
After all, we could
never be sure in the shadows
what specter might
angrily arise if disturbed there,
asleep in his chair.

The Art Of Filleting

After Father returned with
the day’s catch,
rivaling a trained surgeon,
even as the fish
continued to flop about,
he would wield
a sharpened fillet knife to
precisely peel away
the strips of future meals.

An artist at work, when he
finished the task,
graced with head and fin,
the remains still in
scaly garb seemed alive
and ready, once
composted, to swim again
among the roots
anchoring Father’s garden.

Melancholy Flower

Even though it might have known
a day of joy,
this “like new” wedding dress
for sale online
seems like a melancholy flower
there among
the descriptive used car ads.

It demands a detailed backstory:
the shame of
being left standing at the altar,
poverty’s crushing
weight overruling sentimentality,
a dream that
withered shortly after first bloom.

Still, there is no mention made
of the heart
it held for a few precious hours,
a vow that
promised to stretch to eternity,
how her mirror
certainly blushed in admiration.

Then again, could it be a fairytale
of a princess
cherished until her final breath,
and perhaps
melancholy flower, it was simply
time for death
to come clean out the closets.

Playacting

Tipsy, I pretended
to shoot an arrow at the moon
as it floated above,
plump as a summer fed hen,
and grunted in surprise
when, acting mortally wounded,
it seemed to succumb
in the arms of a passing cloud.

Hours later, returning
from a neighbor’s hospitality,
theatrically trying to
walk a straight line back home,
I discovered overhead
my supposed victim, unruffled,
still playacting as it
basked in dawn’s curtain call.

After Gaining My Trust

A proffered handshake
to say we can still be friends,
it stiffly disengages
when my feeble grip persists.

Having whispered
sweet nothings for decades,
youth betrays me,
sneaking off with my dreams.

Always distracting
me from the mirror’s proof,
it promised there
was no need for concern.

How can I forgive
the sin, such treachery, when
its implanted image
continues to breathe within?