Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Late March, before dawn...

late March, before dawn
songbirds, rooster and I
prepare for the day
flick of the curtain
all the birds disperse
except the robins
a corner of the home place
patch of daffodils
tiny husks of oak's
new growth anoint my writing,
fall in my coffee
gun cocked...slithering
toward the back-pasture turkey
only a muffler
Mom's clock
doesn't have numbers
it has birds
the week-long school break
and spring begin together
the child's fresh head cold
for his 4-year-old
ruptured aorta...
died at 50...friend's comment:
"He had a big heart."
c 2010 lovepat press

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Michael's: Closed

The doorway dripped hot water
puddling ancient, gaudy carpet.
I sat against the springs-damp wall
and remembered last year . . .

. . . Late, we'd adjourned to the pub
to meet, mix & mingle, as per the schedule.

A cameoed caricature in the elevator
promised a piano bar; the performer
sat uplevel, beseiged by older men
who supposed they were entertaining her.

You smoked, nursed a yellow drink
(screwdriver? lemonade?)
She ordered a scotch and water,
I, a frozen marguerita.

Next evening, we met yet again.
Would piano polish the day's intense poetry wash?

Conversation snaked through chapbooks,
hoaxes on editors, college teaching, demise
of downtowns Des Moines, Detroit, Decatur.

When did the subject slide to relationships?
She talked of husband, children, granddaughter;
I flashed a photo of the newest man in my life,
a 2-year-old grandson, hastening to explain
he was the only man in my life.
You acknowledged a sister who read your poetry,
a brother who did not. (No wife? sweetheart?)

A riveting crash exploded the drum machine,
softened, sequed into a lush piano-soprano rendition
of "I Don't Stand a Ghost of a Chance With You."

c 2010 lovepat press

Sunday, March 14, 2010

March--a good month for haiku

picking the buds
of the daffodils before
the grandchild does
pear-motif house flag
furls in the gentle March breeze~
green shoots through dead leaves
a sheepish March first
wood violets on the sill
with the Africans
the roadside's
dense blue patches
of Johnny-jump-ups
on each bare branch
of the beautyberry
a goldfinch
the coolish promise
of a starry March evening
our Friday night date
(idea- M. Masterson)
first time to sit out
this spring . . . cloud passing the sun
cools the westerly

c 2010 lovepat press

Saturday, March 6, 2010

March into March-- cinquains and other short forms

Changes (a tripod)
I sit apart and muse
about the puzzling death of our love--
how green can turn to brown
so quickly.
Coincidence (cinquain)
cathedral bells
ring Vespers; far away,
a locomotive blows. Two sounds,
same pitch.
Donald Tatman, Arkadelphia AR
Three books
published after
he turned ninety. Wrote them
out in longhand in a Big Chief
I wondered why the bird fussed
(cinquain sequence)
for patio
picnic, I stashed extra
stuff in the garage. The next week
I found

--to my
dismay-- a nest
in a small watering
can. I looked closer: a long-cold
wren's egg.
Couldn't Be! (limerick)
In charge of a grandson named Fred,
He told me just what his friends said:
"Unless she's a pixie
Your 'Mom can't be sixty.
If she were that old, she'd be dead!"
c 2010 lovepat press