A Father’s Day Celebration

Constellations Frame Memories

 

You are there

Stalwart stalk and a bloom’s

Nascent memory—

A child in the garden

Pleading you not to pluck a

Peculiar green shoot

Out of place like me

a redheaded

freckle-faced waif

too full of energy to know better

than to be defiant

and bud into a sunflower

bright

beautiful

 

You are there

The wind’s gentle movement

Brushing the window screen—

You reach between the squares

Assure the child who

Pushes down fear

Brawls with emotions

desperate for answers

begging for

full confirmation

vulnerable and craving

promises

peace

 

You are there

The handler in the airport

Of a one-armed bandit—

Five in tow

A set of six eyes

Ritual watchers of

One Nickel

as tumblers

spin all are

hopeful for a win

click—watermelon

click—lemons

loss

always

  

You are there

A model creating

Award-winning masterpieces—

Paper

Notched balsa wood

Store bought string

Homemade glue

March winds compelling

kite makers recyclers of newspapers

to assemble around the

kitchen table

measuring smallest and longest

skeleton

tail

 

You are there                                                                                     

A coordinator of Texas reunions

Insistent on crafting memories—

Well-made like

Tightly woven

Rugs stronger

Than time

Instruments’ music

poetry and skits

a cappella voices sing

textiles of history

sewn

revered

 

You are there

A flower head tattoo

The flesh narrates—

Of one who sooths

Growing pains

Besiegers

In the night                                                                                 

couched compassion

embraces and encourages

surrender to your

tender nudges to

resume

slumber

 

You are there                                                                                     

Brown Leisure suit shroud

Framed face speaks your maxims—

         You are smarter than the average bear

         You are my favorite redhead

         You done good kid

         Eagle eyes

everything is okay

when calls

check in to confirm a

troubled adolescent

alive

sound

  

You are there

In the heavens constellation Canes Venatici

On Earth Helianthus Constellation—

Sunflower in the sky

At my window

In the garden

On my mind

you mark it under the stars

on camping nights

we grow them in the

garden and roast

pin-stripped treats

 gentle

 giant

 

 

I Used To Dream Of Not Being Broken

I coaxed the monsoon
From the jagged pock-marked pools
On the sidewalk’s cement

I drew out the tempest remains
With the speckled dun velum
Peeled back from a black walnut twig

I poked in one bug hole then another
Sucking the summer juices from each cement square
And painted ephemeral portraits

I worked like the storm
Furiously stalking the sketches
Then watching them disappear

Wished I too could evaporate
Before the women provoked by
Their own torment found trouble:

Southern squalls delivered
Thunderous claps
Drenching me in terror filled fear

Forty seasons have passed
I do not coax water into sticks
I create pictures resistant to fading

I am the tree
That drinks water
I won’t be broken

The Twelve Days of Poetry

THE TWELVE DAYS OF POETRY
Sung to the tune of The 12 Days of Christmas

On the first day of poetry my teacher said to me, “Every line of poetry is called a verse. “

On the second day of poetry my teacher said to me, “Two verses are a couplet, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the third day of poetry my teacher said to me, “Three lines are a triplet, two lines are a couplet, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the fourth day of poetry my teacher said to me, “A quatrain is four lines, three lines are a triplet, two lines are a couplet, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the fifth day of poetry my teacher said to me, “A cinquain is a stanza with five lines. A quatrain has four lines, a triplet three, a couplet contains two, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the sixth day of poetry my teacher said to me, “Stanzas stand in groups, a cinquain is a stanza with five lines. A quatrain has four lines, a triple three, and a couplet contains two, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the seventh day of poetry my teacher said to me, “Alliteration twists the tongue, stanzas stand in groups, a cinquain is a stanza with five lines. A quatrain has four lines, a triplet three, and a couplet contains two, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the eighth day of poetry my teacher said to me, “Metaphors and similes compare, alliteration twists the tongue, stanzas stand in groups, a cinquain is a stanza with five lines. A quatrain has four lines, a triplet three, and a couplet contains two, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the ninth day of poetry my teacher said to me, “A haiku doesn’t’ rhyme, metaphors and similes compare, alliteration twists the tongue, stanzas stand in groups, a cinquain is a stanza with five lines. A quatrain has four lines, a triplet three, a couplet contains two, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the tenth day of poetry my teacher said to me, “An elegy laments death, a haiku doesn’t’ rhyme, metaphors and similes compare, alliteration twists the tongue, stanzas stand in groups, a cinquain is a stanza with five lines. A quatrain has four lines, a triplet three, and a couplet contains two, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the eleventh day of poetry my teacher said to me, “A ballad tells a story, an elegy laments death, a haiku doesn’t’ rhyme, metaphors and similes compare, alliteration twists the tongue, stanzas stand in groups, a cinquain is a stanza with five lines. A quatrain has four lines, a triplet three, and a couplet contains two, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

On the twelfth day of poetry my teacher said to me, “An alexandrine is a line with 12 syllables, a ballad tells a story, an elegy laments death, a haiku doesn’t’ rhyme, metaphors and similes compare, alliteration twists the tongue, stanzas stand in groups, a cinquain is a stanza with five lines. A quatrain has four lines, a triplet three, and a couplet contains two, and every line of poetry is called a verse.”

Natural Decay

I am tired of aging.

The vapors.

The pains.

The nuisances of aching bones—natural decay.

I say beauty before age.

It’s meant in jest, but its real.

Little girls don’t get it.  Big girls do!

Bodies and souls hurt, we weep.

Broken and tears swell making puffy faces—natural decay.

Assumptions teetering on the edge of wrinkles balance with wisdom.

I have compassion for the youth with so much to learn—natural decay.

But wisdom delivers an earned ticket, a righteous keepsake.

Mine are neatly kept hidden.

Later unpacking for overnight jaunts they peek out.

As quickly as they appear they get hung to see for all who come close.

Embarrassing shame of stained panties—natural decay.

My heart quickens when thoughts pour out during this day’s outing.

The only repacking are the ideas and conversations to myself—natural decay.

I won’t care if I pack the words to take home.

Perhaps it is best to leave them where they are.

The pains.

The vapors.

The aging—natural decay.

Image

THE MACHINES

At play–

The walker

The watcher

The sitter

The  r   u   b   b   e   r

r

e

y

a

r

p

The

The winner

The double down MAX player

        double

The wisher

The smoker

         d                      r

The         i  n  k

                    e

                    r 

The repeater

The d  r

        a  w

        e   r

The voyeur

The pouter

The scre e  e  e  e  e  e amer!

The addicted self-hater

The  w          n        e

a        d        r     abouter

The come back again re-thinker thinker.

The machines at play–

House wins.