THE POSSE
We were ants
that swarmed
an opening,
digging,
stealing,
back to the
cave,
pests in
general,
creating a
nuisance,
in hell when
it rained,
in trouble
otherwise,
a pack of
delinquents
in line
to build a
world
with our
rules,
living in one
with too
many,
subject to
the
occasional dose
of pesticide
when our
numbers
bore notice.
SOON ENOUGH
That stubborn
pile of snow,
the one
beneath the dense white pine,
refuses to
melt,
constantly
avoiding
the glare of
the sun
that pursues
it at varied angles
throughout
the Spring.
“Reminds me
of me!,”
declares the
old man
in the
adjacent house,
getting a
dose of fresh air
and talking
to no one in particular.
I’ll never
give up, he thinks,
leaning on
his cane
as he watches
the pedestrians
walk by,
greeting him
with a casual
wave,
mothers
following their children,
runners
crisscrossing the streets
as the
pigeons desecrate
the neighbors
roof
and the crows
take turns
feeding off
the carcass
of a road
kill squirrel
capturing his
gaze,
disarming his
invulnerability.
STORY TELLER
The sky is a
great big book
where stories
are transcribed
upon layers
of blue,
celestial
fonts
swirled by
fair weather clouds
on one grand
page,
imprinting
secrets,
like the tale
of sunlight
that
brightens
your corner
of the world.
You might also
read, for example,
an account that
features a rainbow,
stalking the
pewter sky,
following a
thunderstorm,
smiling
beneath the clouds
at the
peeking sun
that guides
the rhythmic
patter of raindrops,
leaping from leaf
to leaf,
how one such
drop,
highlighted
by the light,
glistened upon
a earring
lost in a
passionate
early evening
embrace
beneath the
shadow of a maple,
a small
diamond cluster
hanging from her
lobe,
the one you
nibbled
as she sighed
while you
attempted
to dislodge
the hook
above the
zipper
on the back
of her dress.
Affirmation of a wonderful combination words to create
ReplyDeletean originality and variety of poetry.