We’ve moved
my wife and I from home
to the last place
we’ll ever live and she
wants to know why
I’m sitting around
not helping to unpack.
So I tell her the problem
which is her problem too
but she keeps unpacking.
I’m not at home, I tell her,
but I’m not here either.
Not to worry, I say.
I’ll let both of us in
when we arrive.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
Three fingers; three candles
Her broad smile
The justification of the big day
Her questions universal
Her thirst for information
A credit
To any philosopher
The nature of death
The origin of flowers
An endless barrage
Of unanswerable queries
Questions formal education
Discourages
With the corset-tight standards
With the rigors
Of what to learn
And when to learn it
Stifling that curiosity
Thoughts and reasoning
Dormant
Until age and wisdom
Reaffirms that childhood fancy
No longer
Worrying about utility
Free thinking
A galaxy of learning
In that short time
Before age
Sweeps it all away
Do not quiet that child
Seek with her answers
Accept your own ignorance
And welcome that common journey
For hers
Is a world still expanding
A wonderful world
You can share
Her voice
A black hand
That reached for me
Her tone
A mother; a teacher
Showing me
A world of her youth
Gritty
But always with dignity
Pain so deep
That pretty words
Like whore make up
Seemed so out of place
Hurt deep and dark
But never so bleak
To smother her optimism
I cling to her
As she led me
Through dark tunnels
Then into the light
Her pen
Like a chisel
Carving her words
Deep in my consciousness
The people seem so old
bits and pieces
the remains of
generations gone by –
empty pews, sparse choir
light collection basket –
even candles burned at
both ends eventually
go out.
Don’t expect quick
thoughtless response.
That was so yesterday.
I’ve rushed into yes
way too many times when
I should have gingerly
paused. So now, practicing
the Art of No, I balance
your request, getting back
to you later.
Fred brought his old comic books
and some hard candy to a food pantry
and didn’t think much about it.
Just a different kind of donation.
Maybe somebody would want them.
When Fred visited the pantry again
Molly behind the counter raved
about the comics and candy
how much they meant
to the children who came in
with mothers looking for food.
Molly said the children were
happy to have something
they could call their own.
They took their comics
and candy home smiling
proving little things mean a lot
to little people who have nothing.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
I remember
a Monday
grey darkness outside
your little apartment
home to a husband
a son
a daughter
and you
here while
the rest of your family starves and shudders
and cries in Liberia
battling the unspeakable evil
called Ebola
we watch the video
on your phone
the people in the street
deciding the best answer to fear
would be a parade
bright colors moving through
the streets before
walking home for the quarantine
your family
far from the city streets
in a tiny village
less chance to meet
the virus
but so much more helpless
without a hospital
should the enemy strike
Agnes
I think of you when
I see calling birds
careening
through the darkening sky
With only the precision
a crayon-infused curlicue
can manage,
I have outlined my loves
on the leaking
watercolor portrait, using
my viewfinder to blot out
those images I don’t want
to persist.
More at https://jddehartpoetry.blogspot.com.
‘Wow!’ Where did all of the oranges,
yellows and reds come from?
It’s been greys, blues and greens
for so long now…
I had forgotten that Spring actually exists.
Lopsided, tumbling, skyscraper piles
of ‘Saved for a Special Occasion’ clothes,
it just has to be as perfect as I can alchemize it.
‘First Impressions’ are exactly what the word
‘Everything’ was invented for.
Eight hours and thirty six minutes to go…
and I could simply scream… Again!
Derailed locomotive ‘Heartbeat’
‘Mind’ twirling cartwheels of giddiness
and if I entered my ‘Pulse’
into the Olympic Games
they would have to award me Platinum.
‘Tender yet Sophisticated’
she keeps mantra-ing to herself
as she runs a hot bubble bath
for the fourth time this very morning.
Singing gaily like Doris Day
on day release from the Looney Bin.
She dances theatrically with McArthur the cat
in between sighing and smiling
her dazzling way through the fantastic day.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
We watched the rain-drenched
couple from a safe location
in a dry spot, sipping almond-flavored
coffees at a small shop.
Both of us love the stone work
at this particular haunt, little nooks
and crannies among buildings to explore,
the sound of shoes on cobblestones.
In this moment, we are grateful for
each other, grateful for the chance
to chat about life, and grateful also
for an umbrella and a warm seat.
More at http://jddehartpoetry.blogspot.com/.