Roses are red
My name is not Dave
This makes no sense
Microwave— nephew Henry
I see…
I see green
Trees above the gray rocks
I hear birds chirp and boats zooming
I feel the windy breeze and the rough picnic table
I smell the the warm pizza and freshly mowed grass
I taste the bubble gum the cheesy pizza
— niece Willa
vacation poetry with Henry (10) and Willa (8)
Teenagers lived in fear
of Sargent Benson,
the state trooper
who lived right across
U.S. 27 from our road.
They shared warnings
and news and speculations
Benson pulled over
LT and the Boys
for drag racing
at the Lick.
Don’t drive past
his house in that old
Mercury. He’ll write
you a ticket for cruising
in a motor boat.
Benson has eyes
in the back of his head.
So, this morning as I stroll
through our quiet neighborhood
with my beagle, enjoying
music of mourning doves
and woodpeckers,
dreaming about poems
I might write today,
the sudden roar of a muffler-
less engine takes me back
to that world where a blue
light flashes behind every
jacked up ’57 Chevy
metaphor–slowing the go,
pumping the pause.
Such an ambiguous question is “Do you know who I am?” I mean,
1. Are you asking if we’ve been introduced?
2. Are we playing a guessing game?
3. Are you testing me for dementia?
4. Are you suffering from dementia and need to be reminded of who you are?*
5. Are you suggesting that your importance as a person indicates, nay demands,
special attention and deference?
I hope the answer isn’t #5. Self-touting is beneath you, whoever you are.
*If so, would you like me to write your name on a Post-It so you can look at it? Or maybe you might read it and wonder who that guy is, that is,
if you are still able to read.
(I’m really sorry if #4 is the reason you asked the question.)
lunacy rules
the drumbeat parade
summer explodes
I cloister deep into
the garden of myself
Atheist and fundies online alike,
lumping all the other together,
attacking the weakest,
assuming the strong don’t exist.
Straw men dumped on a bonfire,
nothing learned.
Can you tell us what it’s like being a cat?
Well, I could…
Okay. What’s your favorite food?
Food is food. But you’d better keep to the damn schedule!
What do you like to do for fun?
We don’t have “fun”. We hunt.
Why are you so picky about giving and receiving affection?
Because our love is not cheap.
Do you have any advice for human beings?
Yes. Relax. Let life happen, as it happens. We cats have a saying:
Sleep well–the sun will follow its course.
Tiny buds coat
the hillsides along the turnpike,
a respite from traffic and construction.
Hidden in alcoves like saints in the church,
splashes of pink hues
brushed across the landscape.
Soothing portrait at the end of winter’s chill
branches covered with trails of buds
bending in dance steps.
A performance of Swan Lake
with different poses
offering a wave drenched in pinks
throughout the Tuscarora Mountain.
When I sleep my soul God keeps,
but when awake, & something takes
my attention, it’s no longer mine
~ Tiny Montgomery
Everyone’s trying to steal my attention
hugger-muggers
flick-tongue pickpockets
toothy-smile deceivers
& use it as a fuse for their hydrogen bomb
Ghenghis Khan
some guy named Ron
even little babies
grab it, add it to their pile
their 401-k of imagination
Even if I stuff my fists
in my pants pockets, close my eyes
& bare my teeth like a badger
I’m
left
bereft
bothered & bewildered
From the start, I hoped to instill a bit
of Southern manners at our house.
Our five-year old’s honorifics lasted a day.
Twenty-five years later,
our son quietly works whatever room
and engages each person.
He cradles his cat up in his arms
and coaxes her outside
and guards her against hawks.
At his sister’s wedding, he accompanies his toast
with props like overalls and Christmas stockings,
a bit of well-timed comedy to lighten the night.
His pep talk and hands-in huddle
before a big sale unites and energizes
his volunteer team. He sets aside titles
he knows particular customers will appreciate.
He dresses for his workday
in vintage sweaters and vests
regardless of the weather,
tweed jackets for board meetings.
In a typical week, he may send
a bouquet in apology, make
a hospital visit or two, or honor
a volunteer with a pizza party.
Without fail, he repeats himself
to seniors
(even his parents!)
and handwrites thank you notes.
A writer himself, he chronicles his year
of managing the library’s used bookstore.
He convinced me to join the Italian Table
and takes his dad to basketball games.
Back in the day, my mother
would introduce me
even when I was an adult by saying
I never caused her any trouble.
People we barely know
brighten our lives with their comments
about our son. Now that he is thirty, my wish
is that he keeps a bit of that glow for himself.
