Bucolic
Favorite names of men, for me,
Are “Jeremy” and “Timothy.”
I’ve a CD of birds in the wild
On which clearly as clear can be
One dude reiterates its name:
“Jeremy Thatcher, Jeremy Thatcher,”
Pauses briefly, then
Double-states again.
In my mind I see a former
Female Prime Minister of Great Britain.
Timothy?
Timothy’s the grass of that meadow.
Charley Horse
Napping, such a sudden sharp pain in a calf
Because I shifted my leg
Quickly in the wrong direction!
As a child attacked by Charley Horse,
I was told what it was called. I found
Knowing its name neither interesting
Nor helpful; instead, I wondered
Could this happen again? Daddy
Told me what to do, next time it came.
This morning it occurs. But I possess
His remedy: do not fight against it;
Remember to breathe;
Wait – which can take some time.
The difference between this and Life’s
Other ills? Only its somewhat intriguing name.
Fallen Pecans
Pecans were wooden worlds
To open by pressing hard two together
Or by letting nutcracker jaws crack one apart.
The boy liked using a thin silver pick to lift
The lobes of a brain out of its shell
Like jigsaw puzzle pieces.
He was too young to be shod in hobnail boots
Like the overalled man he saw
Gleefully stamp on fallen pecans next door
But believed
In a year or two
He also could do that.
Farmer’s Market At The Civic Center
Seemingly tireless, the lady from Greece
Positions halved oranges on the machine,
Bears down, lifts up
And, smiling, offers juice.
The stand’s a hole-in-the-wall
But soon she will find
A better location. Framed is
A postcard of her town.
Sometimes, she tells, when they meet
There, sea’s blue and sky’s blue
Cannot be separated
By anyone’s eyes.
A grown son blends energy shakes,
Apparently, content. If you talk
Both will visit and into your mind
May come funicular railways.
Everyone, these two attest,
Is from somewhere
And for five to ten minutes after
You can see this everywhere.
Dumpster Fire Press 