Naughty little bear
Thievery in his orchard
Romp. Peaches his goal.
Naughty little bear
Thievery in his orchard
Romp. Peaches his goal.
Four drowning rabbits
And a fallen-over, tumbled cherub
Dominate my succulent
Not national or world renown,
Still all mine and thriving,
Treated to water once a week
Based on belief that in a
Rainforest it would be drenched
Then scorched in a natural way.
Virginia is not the Amazon
Nor my friendly solarium
The exotic environs breeding
Species uncharted and uncounted
The orchids, reptiles, avians
I’ve added cheerful carolers,
Plastic cowboys, religious mothers
And clowns, for better or worse
You must have clowns.
Nothing more than a 10 cent purchase
Often free for the taking.
As in so much of life,
It just happened.
From one aloe to another,
One terra cotta pot to the second
It grew, greeting each day with silent
Songs. I continue with their melody
Day in day out.
If I were gone tomorrow or
The day after next,
A clutter monger would not think twice
Of my exotics, their harmonies, or my care.
To the garbage heap they’d go.
No hand of mine, no memory to keep
The weekly ritual abandoned
With a life of discards discarded.
Nothing lasts forever.
Songs are silenced
And friends die.
August 24, 2018
While chaos starts its reign
You sit in your pretty little corner,
Lacy and ribboned
You play jacks.
To pick up the pieces.
Chaos begins a heavier rain.
You sIt at your windowpane
Play cat’s cradle.
Learn to untie the
Confusing knots of being.
You spread a favorite
Evenly on your counterpane
Believing this four-postered
Canopy, a safe haven for thought.
The dolls and trucks
No time to let your
While work stands waiting.
A top spinning teaches you balance
Learn it, remember it well.
Your tIn soldiers climbing
Up the parapet,
Swimming the moat,
Arming the catapult with
Their lone ammunition.
Elders whistle down the wind,
Talk the solutions to death, while
You keep my books well-read,
Eager for the perfect word
To appear, solve the mess they made.
You prepare, young as you are,
But wise as a Galapagos tortoise.
To keep aeroplanes suspended
Firmly in the blue.
You watch the bubbles burst.
Little girl time gone by, before
You learn to tie your shoe.
Home, a rocking chair, worn by sun,
Losing its creak, on a spider’s paradise,
Of a porch,
Webbed so often a lace-curtained Irish
Marm would feel a comfortable fit,
Passing the time with bold squirrels,
No other company invited, my day
Is open to wishing.
“If onlys” crowd out
The contentment of this moment.
So where is
Gone on vacation without leaving
A note ?
Contenting me with a web video
On how mozzarella is made.
Or another that waltzes me
There some crazy violinist channels
Strauss for plump Burgermeisters
watching svelte dancers in
Gowns only an over-decorated
Sacher torte could appreciate.
Ah! That’s the reason, sleep won’t come. Too much sugar.
Have a glass of water and wash it from your system.
No, wait, then I’ll be up, making bathroom runs,
Oh, the travails of
Aging like those ballroom spectators
without even a wolfhound
To keep me company.
That’s it! Canine companionship.
No, again not a remedy,
I’m allergic to dogs.
But human contact might work.
I’ll call my friend John, he’ll know what to do.
Can’t do that either.
He and derelict Morophoman
Might be together at the local bar
Throwing back quantities of schnapps blinkers
With the Dive Bar Divas.
So, attacking the problems in about four ways
Got me nowhere.
Fifth, I don’t take sleeping pills.
Sixth, it’s irreverent to pray for sleep.
Seventh, walking round might set off the alarm.
Eighth, ninth, etc, etc, etc,
Only works for Yul Brynner trying his bare feet
Out, while Deborah Kerr sidesteps his fat toes.
What to do, what to do?
Sit up writing a silly poem?
Tire yourself out with this nonsense?
Or enjoy the foolishness of it all
Till your buddy “The Big M” returns
From his night out with John, the glam gals
All drunk as skunks on Austrian alcohol, trying
One, two, three, one, two, three, box step, box step,
Turn and swirl
Long into the sleepless night
While waves of sweet Blue Danubian strings,
The sound of which. . . . .
Oh my gosh,
I don’t believe it.
Rocks my cradle,
Calms my woes,
Sends me right off to sleep.
August 25, 2018
My olfactories sense Wislawa’s clothing
Emitting that unique odor
Little know in the
Because moths don’t seem to thrive here,
At least not in my neighborhood.
It is similar, though not exactly, the home-filled
scent of a Swiss friend of mine.
Hers seems to descend from lace curtains, doilies,
And assorted antimacassar spread through her house.
These prized handiworks remnant themselves
As memories of her fond, native culture.
So the question becomes,
Do cultures send off
Distinct scents, heritable colognes, that born-to-them folks
Need as survival tools in a strangers’ place, a different homeland?
Szymborska needed this, not at all, for she was internationally
Accepted, acclaimed worldwide, prized with any citizenship.
So why then the moth balls?
Comforting of course
Security against invasion or personal
Incursion, when or where the
Insect or its human henchman might appear.
My imaging eye envisions Wislawa’s room —small, cramped,
Cared for only as a den for emerging word-beasts or heavenly-bodies
Depending on which muse came to visit —
A cup of tea or snort of brandy type.
Cigarette ends, I know they would be there.
Never known as butts, for its not a word of glorious sounds.
An apple, maybe two, salty crackers carefully, evenly-wrapped
In waxed paper, a classic, Europe-in-war-time scene about it.
Manuscripts tenderly arranged, no exception to their neatness.
Snapshots, here and there, no dignitaries, that’s the job of
Hers are family, heart-sharers, those who
Don’t walk in and out of a life, but stay grounded forever.
Yes, if only I could recreate the setting, evoke the ambiance with
Symbolic things, my poems might echo hers,
Leaving me to wonder,though,
if I, too, would begin
To smell like moth balls.
August 19, 2018
“Simple but artistic,” I requested.
Knowing he would take it to heart and head.
The gears activated as soon as the words left my mouth.
Half way through the air to his ear, he captured the means to celebrate this
Luscious Beauty as he conjured up a bushel filled
With adjectives to sing her praises.
”An Ode to the First Tomate,”
“The Pomme of 2016,”
His praise poem took shape,
But he knew he’d have to rush.
Will he have time before the notoriety makes her blush,
Overheat, and turn the fine sheen toward vain glory?
He has mere minutes to tell her, how much
He loves her.
Here they come, cameras loaded, ready for action.
Quick paparazzi elbow in to catch the glisten of her skin,
The promise of a juicy bite
The tilt of her sexy green-stemmed chapeau.
Plucked from his garden of Gloriannas
He searches frantically for the words to describe her care.
Water, sunlight, warmth,
Manure, ahhhhhh, that’s the answer, just right
For his dainty lass
He swore to her and to himself
This delectable darling would never be sold or sliced,
Neither diced nor dissected,
Instead her refined seductiveness
Would be immortalized in words,
Captured on film,
“So, Grandma, I’ll buy you the ticket,
(actually I’ll use my free miles)
And you can just come to visit for
about three weeks.”
“Just, three weeks, you must be joshing.
Do you have any idea how much planning that would take?
Bedding, my favorite pillow
And a cushioned, heated toilet seat.
At 93 I’ve earned it.”
“But I’ll put you up in just the best penthouse.”
“ 33 floors ! How long would that take me,
a caned, old woman to walk down if a fire started?
Do your calculation; age x steps x billowing smoke,
For me to flee a fire.”
“Grandma, just relax,
I’ll get you a handicapped shower.”
“Fine. But what about the time to take it.
In my own home it is an hour,
With a two hour prep time,
And another hour convincing myself I can do it.”
“Calm down, just sit and have a cup of coffee.”
‘My favorite cup would be at home in my drainer.”
“Sweetie, thank you, but
Just leave me be.”
My cane opening with
We start down the obscured aisle
Trying to hide my infirmity.
I never take a major
As is dining out.
Forks slip through fingers,
Then there’s digging for change
To pay for a newspaper
While watched by an impatient clerk,
A plumber on his way to work,
A mother adding chips to her
And the child, himself, tugging at my jersey.
“They don’t understand,” I holler, silently.
I’m trying my best. Age rumbles in,
Advancing faster than my walking stick
Just you wait Urchin, just you wait.”
Maybe I’ll write a poem
About the what and wherefore
Of beds needing changed.
Instead of the toil, I’ll pretend
The work will be done magically,
Pass a wand over a queen-size,
Groan an incantation at a king,
Presto, prepare yourself, chango,
Incomparable sleep in Dreamland,
On its way.