Poetry Here (Mostly)

Posts tagged ‘children’

Parents and Pets (#243)

Puppies grow into companions

happy to remain where they’re raised.

Children feel stuck in home’s canyons

wishing on stars parents don’t gaze.

Purchased birds cling to their cages,

seem content with their inside lives,

but children seek wider ranges,

they need to fly when they can drive.

Puppies and parakeets liven

where children once played and chattered,

a house still a caring haven

though not the heart of what matters.

They Knew They Were Loved

Before murdered innocence,

before fear,

before hiding,

before blood,

before bodies,

before mourning,

before school that morning,

or soon before that morning,

parents gave children

affectionate advice

and probably kissed them.

Memorial Day 2012

Usually read the newspaper fast,

normally skim through bad news,

linger on comics and puzzles.

But  this Memorial Day,

I got caught up in flashed photos

and stories beneath the headlines.


Cemetery expanded,

Marines need more burial space.

Veteran’s wrinkled salute,

 WWII medals on his lapel.

American flags, in uniform lines,

decorate grave-white tombstones.


Counted among dead this year,

three local high school graduates:

2001, 05, 08,

futures buried in San Diego.

Two-hundred came to commemorate

latest “garden of heroes.”


Column inched down the front-page

reporting “Syria denies killing…”

108 civilians,

including 49 children.

I turned the page and saw a floor

lined white with shrouded bodies.


The Jumble today was easy,

a military-themed play on words.

Blondie served spinach to sailor

Popeye. I revived a potted tomato.

Hope I can keep it alive.  The sky looks

blue. Later Jim will fire up our barbecue.

After the Visit


Even as he pulls into my driveway,

and I’m happy that safely he is here,

inside I struggle with negative

projections that to him I don’t reveal.


Each day passes fast, then his visit ends.

Resigned, I’m on the porch to watch as he

packs his blue car with bags and gifts to take.

No tears, I will wave him out of my view.


I must not focus on such visions now

that he has just arrived, we have not hugged,

must reacquaint, me and this man, my son,

so tall, so bright his brain and smile, my boy.


Though when he departs, an adult again,

I’ll linger in his room, still cluttered but

then empty, and there I’ll write new poems

that fill space but do not lose the echo.

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