2012 Poems September thru December
Chaos of Sleep Print this poem only
Am I now ready
and tired enough
to give up the day
its buzz and disarray
let go and enter the deep
unmeasured anarchy of sleep?
Daddy Within Print this poem only
Daddy, how alive you still are
in the environs of the slippery amoeba
I call my self.
You are part of its cellular structure.
I cannot escape you.
Your hand tools and humor
your determined spirit and eternal optimism
circulate within me
as surely as your denied anger
and wild sexual energy.
I cannot escape you
but I can turn my microscope on you
and remove you from the darkness
into the light
of my awakening mind,
make you and your cellular activity
present to my choice.
Lucy's Home Print this poem only
When we arrive, sometimes too weary
from long hard days on our roads
carrying our accumulated loads
from jobs, people and tasks too dreary
we approach her door
with our bags and containers
we're likely entertainers
with tales of woe and jokes and more
for nieces, sisters, nephews and brothers
we're thinking of food preparation
and quirks and aggravation
and memories of fathers and mothers.
Juggling boxes and the weight on our arms
we reach for the button to ring
to open the door and unload what we bring.
She enters the code to avoid the alarms
and opens the door with a smile
that twinkle dancing in her eyes
and takes our veggies and pies
that'll be gone in a while.
We see out back the oasis of blue
where we’ve dipped and glided
slipped and collided
with an arm or thigh or two.
We notice the long brown table
where we’ve eaten and fought
and cursed we were caught
with kings and queens in our stable.
Christmas and birthday celebrations
bring us to this marvelous place
where we share our sorrows and grace,
and storied scenes of vacations.
On the couches in her living room
we've argued and stretched to hear
laughed and shed a tear
and tried not to condemn or assume.
One of our favorite paths to roam
and leave our dirt on the byways
are the streets and the highways
taking us to our dear loving Lucy's home.
The voice in the booth next door Print this poem only
I asked the hotel clerk for local good eateries
She replied with relish, "Is it seafood you desired?"
Yes! And our trip's made us hungry and tired.
Said she, "Next door's the best place in town
where people flock from all around
and the cook is most admired."
After waiting several minutes
feeling the ambience of the place
the hostess in a gliding pace
led us to a window site
for the twinkling of the night
in a quiet relaxing space.
A deep voice softly sang
in the booth next door
at the U.S.S. Chowder Pot IV.
His lover's eyes glistened
as she smiled and listened
to every note in his score.
As their waitress waited with their check
I asked aloud if the music was free
and the man laughed, "Absolutely."
And as they were leaving I inquired
if he was a pro. Oh no, I'm just a retired
working stiff who sings without fee.
I thanked him for the lovely music,
his rich gentle baritone voice
and the romantic songs of his choice.
He and his love were beaming
and in their eyes a gleaming
as he left with one word: "Rejoice!"