Posts for June 5, 2022 (page 8)

Twin Suns hang lazy in a Gemini sky,

A poem is the one good ear

You give to your favorite

Sex worker on Seventh Street 

Even if it only leads to

Blood on the floor and

Nothing else but 

more paint 

a kilted day
thunderstorms loom
behind the last
bottle of homebrew

Mr. Allen Weatherby wooed with a dowry of poetry
Ms. Sylvia Cleveland (and her father, rest assured)
to accept his hand in well-to-do matrimony.

Once wedded, Mr. Allen took to drink quite heavily,
and Mrs. Sylvia now considered her circumstance absurd
as her husband would awake mid-slumber to write poetry.

It was not Mr. Weatherby’s fondness for whiskey,
nor his rambling eyes, hands, or money deterred –
there was nothing could plunder their matrimony

until he increased his proclivity to share incessantly
and would rouse her from a heavenly sleep disturbed
for his rhyming, repetitive, blatantly unbrilliant poetry.

Judge Beane weighed the good lady’s testimony
and trusted her prominent Junior-Leagued word.
She would never put asunder sacred matrimony,

so, he granted her a divorce for cruelty –
on grounds, uncontested, we’ve heard.
Life’s too short, alas, for bad poetry;
only it can plunder sweet matrimony.

scintilllating glee
when a song comes on
that blows me away

-Sue Neufarth Howard

time trust sorrow
experiment riding
long life

wanders the heart
searches the heart
true

You invade in waves of dreams
blitzkrieg by bizarre imagery
in nightmares find myself enchained
rust stains on her fingertips
prodding my innards,
not reiki-trained,
just pressure
to remold me
to be less refractory.

Awaken in cold grievance
asking why you willed my existence—
Were you staving off your isolation
like creating my life was some bandage?

And what happens now
after you drank yourself to death over half a century
when you left your offspring alone
to recoil against instilled misery?”

a robin drifts
through the drive thru
blades of grass
tinkle
down as it speaks
answering the question
we all ask
at some point
usually after midnight
when moon 
shines thru curtain
illuminates shadow
(thank goodness)
paints the wall
with an ashen
film noir pallet 
until we fly
forward
past the world’s
pickup window

with eyes up there
                        to see

                your wings
              in command
                    of
                    thermal 
                       sleeves

           upward rising-
        shifting struggle
                    of 
                    escaping
                            air-

       the floating total
       in glorious glide.

Too many times 
I have searched for 
parking spots,
Had my purse checked, 
stood vunerably just outside 
the hospital with my child. 

The waiting,  the unfamiliar, 
the questions.
So many times 
when they were little 
I had answers. 
Now I an depending on 
overextended doctors and 
nurses to help my child. 
Kindness comes in the form 
on a jovial phlebotomist who 
takes us to a cubical to wait. 

KW