Babies,
at first, protest
the interruption
of maternal continuity,
wail for the usual embrace.
Parents,
pent up, or weeping,
trade offspring
for bundles of guilt:
Even if they trust us,
Even if they need a break,
Even if they have no choice.
He drove while I directed
my phone to remember
the contrast of winter summits
against the flourish of mild-weather
fields, lavishly green as Irish
scenes portrayed in technicolor,
or waiting room magazines.
I kept shooting as we passed
signs of spring, which wet winters
sometimes bring to meadows
and hills that summer fire
fries, but now in this season,
sunny-side yellow profusely
blooms California-wild poppies.
Before the Sonora Desert,
and busy city oasis,
he impulsively pulled over
nearby a quaint, woolly scene,
for photographs, however,
the flock boldly baahed at us
and made me feel quite sheepish.
Dependent, and dependable,
a woman pushing another,
the burden of infirmity shared.
Wheels spin as we parallel
on the otherwise empty pavement.
One twin above the other,
like sunflowers, on the same stalk,
They turn to look at me and offer
the sincerity of unforced smiles,
positive comments, and hopes
that I have a very good day,
I mean it when I wish them the same.
Short but memorable encounter,
for as I continue on my way,
it can’t be coincidental that
My own petals have begun to unfurl.
A nocturnal screech assaulted
the neighborhood and roused my
sympathy for a female feline
at the mercy of a heated tom.
While sipping my herbal tea, and
watching a late, late show, I could
not help hearing nature take its
course beneath my window.
The deed seemed done but still
I wondered just where those cats
came from, who had let them roam,
and why my dog lay unconcerned.
We exited
off the freeway
to wind around
country boulders.
Off-road-shoulder
placards expressed
state of rural
independence:
“Deer may cross”
“Rocks may slide”
“May flood when it rains”
“Horseback riding allowed”
The tidy deserve
messy comforts and
grateful expressions.
The fierce admire
tough challenges that
suspend all chuckles.
The clumsy amble
irked by bright glimmer
spangled in their eyes.
The deceived complain
and exaggerate
great astonishment.
The fleet and versatile,
by coincidence,
perform and delight.
Warp of rosy ribbons
weft of thorny dread
soft and roughly twined
erratic tapestries
I weave within my mind
At the window I view
looms of crowning limbs
and undulating leaves
where wefting windy ropes
cross warps of silken breeze
Weather at last eases
bindings cut and gone
standing free garden tree
once again embroiders
tranquil greenery
Such a long distance between me and you,
wish I could climb in and continue through
to be on your side from here on the other,
sweet infant girl, I’m your new grandmother.
If I could sip Lewis Carroll’s potion,
perhaps I might swim in I-Phone’s ocean,
and stream along with invisible waves,
a Map ap to guide out of cyber caves.
If I avoid phone’s electric circuits,
my arrival there could be just perfect,
but must not forget what it takes to grow
or I will stay smaller than Chloe’s toe.
When Fahrenheit rose uncomfortably
up several degrees internally,
thermometer neared one hundred and two,
the abnormal heat caused my shivers too.
Decided to follow voices I’d read,
fever burns virus until it is dead,
without those pharmaceutical effects
that can cause kidney or liver defects.
“Won’t take medicine, are you serious?
Perhaps, illness has made you delirious.”
“Look, I’m still taking my blood pressure pill,
and adhere to multi-vitamin drill.”
I moaned at well-intentioned suggestions,
and groaned rather than answer his questions.
I allowed sickness to follow its course,
slowly got better, and am not divorced.
My poem got trapped in a Pen.
“Please, Pen, begin to write again.”
Snobby as a Fountain, Pen clicked,
“Your rhyme’s not worthy of my ink.”
“Release my words on paper here,
it’s not your job to judge or jeer.”
“Stanzas neither worthy nor sage,
I won’t allow upon a page.”
“You’re so old fashioned and cruel,
soon, you’ll be a dry fossilized tool.”
With that, I snapped on Pen’s cap,
and moved blank notebook from my lap.
Pen’s critique sounded much muter,
when I turned on my computer.
But, I feel somewhat frustrated,
poem’s still hidden and hated.
Written
on March 8, 2019