Abortion Denied
She had dreams
as big as yours—
of college—
fine clothes—
a useful career—
but,
someone
grabbed her heart,
that junior year.
He said,
“I Love You,”
and she was
trusting
enough
to believe his
thinly sliced
Promises,
Kisses
and Caresses.
The upshot,
a baby girl
came along.
The boy soon drifted away,
a small boat, unmoored.
There was no
high school graduation
with diploma in hand,
proud parents beaming.
Home alone,
her daughter fussy,
bottle bubbling,
angry on the stove,
and later, after the baby
finally fell asleep,
she, our dropout,
stood before the mirror,
imagining a glorious
satin cap and gown,
tassel flipped to one side.
It was then she saw herself,
standing beside a dusty road,
dressed in sloppy jeans,
hard hat,
and fluorescent vest
holding a
Road Closed
sign
at fifteen bucks an hour
that she wished she had
noticed
way back when.
j
A Reckoning
The poinsettia has died—
I tried.
As best I could—
Anyone would.
Bathed in natural light—
Warm and bright.
More Christmas joy brought—
I thought.
Auld Lang Syne and table set—
“A cup of kindness yet.”
Cupid launched his arrow—
Some thought the aim too narrow.
Easter’s promise. He cleansed our sins—
Life everlasting and everybody wins!
Saint Patrick listens to March say—
“Corned beef and cabbage okay?”
Mother’s Day we all know—
Do miss her so!
Memorial Day, too high a cost—
So many brave young lives lost.
Juneteenth, America's shame—
Slaves yes, too many to name.
July 4th’s quiet celebration—
Little enthusiasm in a wounded nation.
As for me—
What will be, will be.
The poinsettia has died—
I tried.
j
Compilation
We are the stories we've read,
the words we've written,
the songs we've hummed,
the tears we've cried,
the clothes we’ve worn,
the miles we’ve walked
and
the smiles we've initiated.
j
Photo by Nicolette Leonie Villavicencio on Pexels.com
More Hyenas
Sometime during the night
while everyone slept,
an intruder dared invade
the village perimeter.
Nose to the wind,
sifting, learning, knowing,
he found a child, untended,
and carried him off.
When the tired sun rose
again, lighting the darkness,
a mother screamed,
a sister sobbed,
a father, outraged,
consulted the elders.
They sat, solemn, listened
to a mother's grief,
a father's anger,
a sister's innocence.
They discussed the matter.
The sun climbed higher,
the heat oppressive,
the light blinding.
Finally, at dusk, the elder
said, "To make our village
safe from the hyena we
need more hyenas."
The village women wept.
j
Crystal Clear
The meaning
of a poem
should be
untroubled
water—
clear as an icy
mountain stream,
not just a string
of pretty words
tiptoeing through
the debris of
ruined romance,
a Rosetta Stone
needing to be
deciphered,
or a phone app
to be pondered.
I have
no time left
for translation.
j
Solitary Confinement
Let's pretend Covid
cannot touch me here,
In my imagination.
There are no mandates,
or quarantines,
or swabs,
or masks.
It’s a place filled with
delightful and dangerous
thoughts—
a hawk of poor vision,
a frozen flight of students,
an enemy drone,
breathing down my neck.
j
Narrow are the Base Paths
Our
Heroes
Race
Around.
Quick is the Laughter
That,
Follows
Our
Love of
Jokes.
Thin is our Forgiveness
For
Apologies
Unmade.
Voracious is our Appetite
For
French Fries,
Cheeseburgers
And Apple Pie.
Paltry is our Patience
For
Red Lights
In
Commutes.
Solid is the Constitution
Our
Democracy
Rests
Upon.
And Wide as the Mississippi is our
Demand for
Guns,
Kevlar,
And
Yes, ever more Guns.
. . . j
Would I could,
I’d spread my wings,
feathered ribs,
across the sky
Oh, let it be.
to shield
America’s children
from gun violence,
and the lawmakers
who father it.
Oh, let it be.
Would I could,
I’d spread my wings
Across the sky.
Oh, let it be.
j
“Actually, Kate said, “I think it’s impossible to like school too much. If you want to know the
real truth, little buddy, I love school. But, I’m not fond of broccoli, I abhor war, and pretty much
detest the New York Yankees. They think it’s perfectly okay to buy all the best players just so
they can win the World Series every year. Their attitude really stinks. I want to be a veterinarian,
a writer, or a librarian when I grow up. Since I don’t have a brother though, I may end up as a
rancher when Dad gets too old to run our acreage. Ranching is in our blood. And you are?
Orville had remained silent during Kate’s lengthy family history lesson and her pointed editorial on war and baseball; but nonetheless he appeared keenly interested, taking it all in,
politely bobbing his head in acknowledgment and understanding. Orville clearly understood Kate was introducing herself to him, and when she stopped talking, he tried his best to respond to her last question appropriately.
He opened his beak, blinked his eyes, and a sound remarkably close to Oorrvuule flowed out. “Hunting is my family blood,” he added.
Unanswered Prayer
When I was a boy Mother insisted I attend Sunday School and Church
each Sunday, though she never once stepped through the door.
I occupied a pew beside my sisters, and thought about baseball, rocks,
golf, fishing, and just about anything else but our Lord and Savior.
One fine morn there was a special feature—a woman came from afar
to play glorious music on her harp for all to hear.
Wait a minute, i thought. Harp is a light Irish beer, and I'd much rather
have a cold glass of it right now than her and that danged harp.
from the Wonderments and Such collection
. . . j
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