Everyday Pomes

070412

EVERYDAY ROSES

Early unfolded,
buds and blossoms both
endure the blast
of unexpected frost.

Outer petals shocked,
at first reprieve
they resume unfolding,
releasing their beneficent aroma.


070411

APRIL APPARITIONS

A silent stampede of shadows,
or ghosts of swirling leaves,
flits across the pavement before me.
Behind and above, a pigeon flock
regroups, ascending sunward.


070410

WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT

All day long today,
people around me
said witty things.

Laughing, I remarked
that I would make a poem
of what they'd said.

By nightfall, pencil in hand,
I'd forgotten every key detail.

Maybe I can make a poem
out of what I forgot.
Maybe I can make a poem
out of nothing!

(Seinfeld would be proud.)


040709

PURR POSE

Does that make you
happy, baby?
Does that make you
a happy baby?


070410

INCOGNITO

Skin artificially tanned,
hair artificially dyed,
makeup made-up;
it isn’t that she lied.

Now, plastic surgery—
a further way to hide.


070409

DEVELOPING STORY

Lucy has a boyfriend,
or is one;
that's the office gossip
of the day.

She's been seen
strolling along the ledge
with another of her sort;
we'll call him Desi for now.

And the rest, as they say,
is mystery.

Over and out;
that's today's pigeon report.


070409

ANNIVERSARY OF AN OPPORTUNITY
(words found on a Subway napkin)

The time to write a poem
is when you just lost your cellphone;
the brand new one your husband
gave you only yesterday; the one
that must havepopped out of its holster
in the Goodwill store where you were
trying to get inexpensive furnishings
to establish a new household.

The time to write a poem
is that same evening after you've
stopped at the Shell station
to use their pay phone to call
your husband and let him know
about the cellphone loss.

The time to write a poem
is when you're sitting at a bistro table
in the combined KFC/Subway sandwich
portion of the Shell station,
long after you've eaten a 6-fatgram
teriyaki chicken on wheat with
Lay's potato chips and a diet Coke
instead of the pumpkin pie, tortilla
chips, and casserole dinner that someone
mistakenly placed on your pickup seat,
prompting you head back inside to
try to return it and absent-mindedly
lock the door of the running pickup
in the process.

Now the inexpensive furnishings
lie open to the air in the bed
of your truck; the cab is locked
and the engine is running,
running, running...

The time to write a poem
is after you've reported this
to your husband who is too far away
to rescue you and recommends breaking
some window glass, only you prefer
to enlist the services of a locksmith,
meanwhile wondering what happens
to a truck engine that depletes its gas
while running, running, running...

"Twenty to thirty-five minutes,"
said the locksmith dispatcher
forty to fifty-five minutes ago.

The time to write a poem
is--no time like the present.


051120

NOT FOR RANSOM

Who else would sing throughout his
entire kidnapping? It was unnerving
and strangely thrilling.

Obviously, our restraints were inadequate.
Bound and gagged,he rode between us
in the getaway truck; the steeper the grade,
the louder his tuneful clamor.

Our latest mission requires just such
a defiant spirit. He can be turned;
he is turning already, pacing his
protestations to the rhythm of the road.

He will serve as our sentinel
once loyal to the new camp, tracking our
minutes and sounding out our quarter-hours
from his post on our new home's mantel;
heart and voice of our new home
across state lines.

[ASIDE: Just found this written on
an old notepad. It was dated 051120.]