Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Joanna M. Weston- Three Poems


she lives at the end
of the number 9 bus
line where the tracks
curve round the bay
through the jail
yard past the cemetery

there her husband lives
under daisy    dandelion
and a broken urn

she gets off the bus
goes down the rutted path
sits with him in the shadow
of an ancient yew
and mutters through broken
teeth of a dead child
familiar songs and old wars


a sad grey man shackled to a cop
at the Mexico city airport
is this a jail transfer?
is he being extradited
from home to away?

no place here for family to visit
if he has wife children parents
to say good-bye or did
that happen in prison?

here    just a walk   handcuffed
through the public concourse

eyes slant toward him in case he runs
wanting to see guilt   finding
shadows at his temples
strain-puckered lips

stocky build moves weightily
in old shirt  sagging track pants
to the plane where no one
can leave


I take the bus
to the race-track
watch the tote
compute the odds
lay a bet
on the fourth favourite
win or place
find a spot
in the stands

breath comes
fast  blood pressure
mounts as the horses
pound round the
last bend into
the straight
to the wire
and my horse
streams past
in second place
nothing like
a good bet

JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of
deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Has a middle-reader, ‘Frame and The
McGuire', published by Tradewind Books; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’,
published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBooks found at her blog:

1 comment:

  1. First poem "A Journey Of Habit" I don't feel the same way about cemeteries. I visited the deceased members of my family regularly. Then someone told me they are not there anymore. I stopped. May they rest in peace in eternity. They are with me forever.