Brothers of mine,
how did we get so old?
So old we remember coonskin hats and cap guns
and your Big Bang cannons?
Fireworks from the State Fair
sparking over our front yard,
where all the neighbors sat on folding lawn chairs
talking about who knows what.
So old we’ve almost forgotten
Your birthday is looming at the end of the week.
I have been chuckling rememb’ring how you would speak
your mind with your hands set firmly on your hips.
The world’s biggest laugh would roar through your lips.
“Oh my Gawd!” with that accent partly northeast
would stop conversation for a moment at least
as we all turned to see just what we were missing
while the story you were telling had everyone hissing
(to be continued)
How rude was life,
leaving him to live
when every beloved died,
when the odds failed
and his heart beat
despite every counter measure
of the Nazi beasts
who thought themselves God.
Liberated, yet always imprisoned
That rasty woodpecker was hard at work
drilling someone’s siding,
while rabbits darted ‘cross the yards
back to where they’d been hiding.
Chickadees see-sawed hello
blue-jays screeched and hollered.
The trail was real…
A house on Belleview Avenue sits behind a fence,
the street is busy and very loud, hence the fence makes a great deal of sense.
It is not the house itself you notice, most of it is hidden,
but sitting on the columns out along the street
sit two concrete gargoyles
you would not deem as sweet.
They are hunched. Their big feet curled. They hold their ugly heads in hands.
But every single holiday they are all dolled up
with ribbons and colorful clothes and jolly good cheer.
And I honk as I pass on my way to work, like an old friend greeting old friends.
It is not that they haunt me, those buried by the Platte north of Denver,
I don’t know most of them, the sixty seven thousand.
I have heard of a few, read about fewer,
But I grieve their lush trees and lawns have been allowed to dry
and blow away…dush to dust…
And so it is
And so, I have retired.
I’m unsure what to do.
I’ll not miss mortgage banking,
with all its hullaballoo,
though I admit I’ve grown accustomed
to having too much to do.
Perhaps I’ll find my inner muse,
and finally write that novel,
This fickle spring weather is giving me fits.
Just when you think you need only a sweater, drizzle spits,
the air, only a moment ago, warm and bright
turns cold enough to make you pull your jacket tight.
The plants I held inside in windows all winter to keep them alive and sweet,
shiver, then wither when placed outside before
I went mad today
tired of the isolation
I’ve new plantation shutters.
They block out all the light.
Conducive to good sleeping,
when day turns into night.
But though it’s dark come morning,
and no light through yonder window breaks,
still I awaken early.
My body stretches and sleep forsakes.
Days start with exuberation
“Get up! Get up! Come greet the day!
” Time for great celebration!”