Poetry Here (Mostly)

Posts tagged ‘poem’

Some May Hard-Boil (day 4 journey/simile)

What’s inside contains

the same. However,

before the journey,

to be marketed,

like people, eggs get

grouped by their color.

F-R-I-E-N-D (Day 3 Acrostic)


Fabulous,                   Funny,                            Friendly,

Responsible,                   Reconcilable.                   Ready,

Interesting,                            Inclusive,                            Ingenuous,

Expansive,                                     Empowering,                           Eccentric,

Natural,                                           Nutty,                                              Nice,

Dependable,                                          Distinctive,                    Demanding

Makings of a Lovely Evening #253

When Sun took a shine to Moon,

her cheeks rouged, and lips crimsoned,

interested, he reflected.


They rarely saw each other,

Moon struggled to rise early,

he got tired but stayed up late.


Moon had never felt so hot,

but as darking time approached

Sun necessarily turned cold.


Clouds comforted lonely Moon,

vapors caressed her features

and tinted their pearly feathers.


West Wind carried Cumulus,

rosy makeup painted sky,

pale Moon stared at colorful scene.

Way to Go

You visited the city

where I have long resided,

not so easy getting ‘round,

neither one of us can drive.


First strolled through my neighborhood,

showed you all the grocery stores,

then, together, walked my dog,

obviously, you wanted more.


Had to visit those locales

in your glossy bright brochure,

places tourists must not miss,

I’d forgotten their allure.


We took the number 7

through areas of working class

high school kids, screaming babies,

long ride, bus did not go fast.


But, the Park destination,

wild woods and cultivation,

peace of Japanese gardens,

surpassed your expectations.


Handy to have a senior’s

pass, good for the trolley too,

Little Italy, Hillcrest,

we could have gone to the Zoo.


35 to Ocean Beach,

then to the Reservation

had mountain view, big buffet,

and blackjack conversation.


You’re home from your holiday,

happy for our excursions,

I’m glad getting where we went

worth effort of exertion.


New Year Predictions #249

I foresee informal celebration:

Whole Foods take-out and bubbled libation,

with Jim, our dog, and Chris, my childhood friend,

the evening rings greetings received and sent.

At 9 it’s midnight in New York’s Times Square,

crowds look cold, happy I’m here not there.

Soon enough, our west coast cheers and kisses,

Cozmo will wag his first New Year’s wishes.


Each year that passes with much left un-done,

leaves gifts of purpose in our newest one.

Christmas Doings #247

I filled my spirit, because it felt thin,

with a big buffet of Christmas films.

Most were corny, sentimental features

filled with new love, kids, and furry creatures.


Pleasant to view TV celebrations,

but we had not put up decorations.

Seemed quite an effort to install a tree,

with family away, there’s just him and me.


Days jingled closer to the twenty-fifth,

still was indifferent to jolly old myths.

But, Jim brought in boxes from the garage,

soon the tree stood where it would lodge.


If that’s what he wants, I thought with a sigh,

I’d follow and give the season a try.

Out came ornaments from many a year,

some made me smile, others conjured up tears.


The tree filled with an unthemed selection,

positively glowed Christmas reflections.

More than one way to celebrate the hype,

dinner for friends, and with family we’ll Skype.

The Way of the Cross #245

I grew up in Brooklyn,

our rooms hitched together

railroad style, on one floor,

life just a shout away.


I was less than seven

when rheumatic fever

took my teen-aged cousin,

I have vague memories.


A priest gave his parents

the coffin crucifix,

for solace I suppose.

They nailed it to the wall.


My aunt and uncle’s house

country chirps and quiet.

Bedtime forced me upstairs,

to find my way alone.


Had to pass the Jesus

a funeral had risen.

Could not avoid his gaunt

body or naked eyes.


Across the hall, from where

I went to bed, should have

been my cousin’s room. Still

displayed his model planes.


I feared hurting someone’s

feelings, living, dying,

or dead, if I revealed

how ill at ease I felt.

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.

The Price of Lint #239

Soon our money will be spent

fixing up our drier vent.

Thought that Sears could do the job,

but they’re just a high-priced mob.


I think the clothesline’s good enough

unfailing sun dries all our stuff.

He wants bath towels extra soft,

they’re too rough when hung aloft.


Received another estimate,

more fair than the one Sears sent.

Still, they need to break a wall,

pipe to the roof and that’s not all.


From the line a bird takes wing,

that’s where I still hang our things.

Lawn and sky comply with codes,

natural vents for washer loads.

Bells (#237)

The sizzling boulevard climbed and where

it daled, I waited for a downtown 1.

Shielded by beige hat and cheap sunglasses,

I unfolded my number’s bus schedule,

read, folded, then unfolded it again,

took refuge in its printed promises.


Mad dragon, August, unreasonably

blasted the bus stop’s bench un-seatable.

No oasis in the desert blue sky,

but in cement-rooted neighborhood,

a maturing tree in a square-cut bed

cast a small shadow over the sidewalk.


A younger woman and I shared thin shade,

communicated with our quiet smiles.

Blessed Sacrament bells soon counted ten.

Steepled keepers of our precious hours,

ringing time awakened our memories.

Her voice tolled with childhood recollections.


“In my country, I grew up on a farm

where only the village church bells kept us

informed of the day’s hourly progress.

A clock was a rich person’s luxury,

but the bells were enough for most of us,

they used to tell me when to go to school.”


I chimed in about Sundays in Brooklyn

when insistent bells commanded our Mass

attendance, early, mid-morning, or late.

Then, services and priests were plentiful

and Catholics feared and felt obligated

to obey our so-called Mother, the Church.


The bus came after we’d exchanged stories.

One after the other we showed passes

that passengers, who ride often, purchase.

Then, as if we’d had no conversation,

and bells had not rung in old times, we sat

ourselves apart and never spoke again.

Tag Cloud