For Ms. T-

As you lay dying,

I went out to mow the grass,

Knowing it a task

I’d be able to perform

With a bit of grace,

Preparing myself to try

To bid you this last good bye

With dignity and honor.

What’s In A Name

How dare they name it “The Preserves”;

Their tacky little neighborhood

Full of plastic McMansions

Standing there in stately rows

On their vast 2 acre lots

Like so many well marked graves

On land that’s been a family farm

Since the Sixteen Sixties?

~

I suppose some urbanites

Accustomed to the chaos

Of their hurly-burly cities

May regard this rigid mess

Of restrictive covenants,

Invasive fruitless pear trees,

And precisely sculpted lawns

As an earthly paradise.

~

And I suppose, on second thought,

The name Preserves may be correct

In so far as plastic jars

Of Strawberry flavored Jam

Can be said to be preserves

Of the many luscious bowls

Full of plump, fresh picked, fruit

Served along with Clotted Cream

And Grandma’s pound cake sliced, still warm,

From her ancient oven.

Senryū- 28 Apr 2023

I don’t want to know

what distant shelling sounds like!

Ignorance IS bliss.

A Passing Palinopsia

A lucid moment,

skitters past and disappears

furtive as a mouse,

into the mounting clutter.

Leaving us all wondering,

“Was it, really, ever there”?

Seeing Red

Amidst a mess of document

left in a box in this old home,

new to us these last few years,

mixed among the old receipts

for plumbing work and seedling trees

and appliance manuals

for appliance dinosuars

long gone to their extinction,

I found a weathered yellow sheet

Typed upon in fading blue,

a restrictive covenant

that pierced my heart. Could it be true?

Did my predecessor here,

in this vibrant melting pot,

this neighborhood of polyglots,

seek, back then to enshrine

his bigotry upon the land

from that point and for all time?

Yes, my friends, I’m sad to say,

around the time my dad was born,

some lofty ass took it to mind

to codify a huge red line

around this humbled cot of mine.

NaPoWriMo 1 Apr 2023- Katauta

A battered old craft

Frozen atop muddy waves

Lonely in cut-over waste

First, Bull. Run!

In the distance, sharp,

the crack of rifle fire

echo high above farm ford

the peace thereof polluted.

Weathering

Like the well worn seat

in my old, hard driven, car,

molded, thus, by many miles

this nostalgic ache

dwelling here, where grief once lived

is my new life’s companion.

Close Encounters of the Cluster-B Kind

Darlin’, how I wish

you’d treat your costume jewelry

like they were all precious gems;

not the other way around!

Today, We Vote!

Today we hold the middle ground

Lest we make a prophesy

Of Yeats’ “Second Coming”-

“The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.”

That Hoary Gilded Capital

Walking sullied streets,

noting all the old deceits;

gold leaf peeling off in sheets.

~

Cracked and weathered stone,

reminiscent of old bone

cast aside to rot alone.

~

Maybe I’m jaded,

but it’s luster has faded,

past dignities degraded.

~

How have we become,

so uncaring, heartless, numb,

is there naught that can be done?

~

Dare we even try

to uphold truth to that lie,

“Great Republics can not die“?

~

If we can’t, we’re done.

Hare on off and have some fun.

Democracy’s race is run.

Open Mouth Insert Foot

There are times, my friends,

it’s better to be silent

than to just shoot from the hip,

saying any old damned thing

that springs to a senile mind!

Questions of Heroes and Saints

Do heroes have to be perfect

in order to earn our respect?

Must they be free from all blemish?

Is that what we’ve come to expect?

How much stain, how much tarnish,

how much of a character blemish

can be glossed over by splashing

on coats of whitewash and varnish

before the seething and gnashing

of the oppressed leads to the trashing

of monument to those held dear

in eruptions of violent clashing?

The answers, my friends, are clear.

Let’s open our ears and try to hear

the history of brutal oppression

that cause so many to live in fear.

Since if we can’t learn this lesson

we’ll lose more than an election!

Folks, it’s high time to reject

this notion that every hero warrants beatification!

Sans Sorrow

It’s really simple.

Why can they not understand?

This parting is purely sweet.