Category Archives: nostalgia

Abandon

Chalk sun-faces on an asphalt driveway,
drawn to chase away the chill breeze
and forecasted rain.

Bicycles circle the cul-de-sac
blazing trails, pedals flail.

Shouts and whoops
to Scout
to fetch the ball
and chase the calls.

Children playing with abandon.
Adults watch and see themselves –
their childhood, stranded.

Christmas passed

I sit at the side of an aging Christmas tree,
its lights still glittering, the ornaments of memory
and seasonal delight put away since yesterday.

Times of Yule have passed, and a passionate thread
winds with the ribbon, translucent and red,
around the fir’s perimeter, wreathed and twisted.

Perhaps, tomorrow I shall put it all away –
the strings of lights, the skirt with gold inlay,
And finally, the tree itself – for future holidays.

And in the empty spaces that it leaves
I shall remember light and ribbon, though it grieves
that such a brightening emblem has to leave.

Listen

I’ve spent the week listening to songs
and paying tribute to old movie stars.
Ol’ Gator and the Crewe are gone,
the coffee pot is growling on.

The songs I heard are old and true,
yet still they sound like yesterday.
I send them out from me to you.
The coffee pot is growling on.

Ol’ Gator fought the crooked law
and justice served the Crewe at last.
Even bandits fight against their flaws.
The coffee pot goes growling on.

What could happen, which is worse?
Posed a voice I recognize.
Are our leaders so accursed?
the coffee pot goes growling on.

Where did all our heroes go?
I ask aloud – inside my head.
The lonely people – they all know
the coffee pot’s still droning on.

Songs and stories will often tell
us who we are to be:
Poet, lover, bootlegger rebel.
The growling pot has stopped, it’s done.

Upon a doorway

Clay flowerpots lay strewn about,
the solid door shut, and the grout
amidst the brick and plaster walls
is hurried and askew.

The silent ones living there
do not come or go much anywhere,
the light and air commiserate
with old facades, worn and true.

Once, daffodils and daisies roamed
and bloomed in springtime at this home,
now wearing in dilapidation
clay pots all are cast a-strew.

Yet, beauty can come once again
through this threshold and attain
a place the memories are kept
upon a doorway, words brand new.

******
A poem written in response to Worth a 1000 words prompt by The Haunted Wordsmith. Not a story in a 1000 words, which I think was the intent of the prompt.  🙂

 

Lament (a Cento)

Our one forever,

when it stole through the red gates of sunset
left over from autumn, and the dead brown grass
is yet vibrant with the cadence of the song you might have been.

No longer mired in waiting to begin.

They tell us the night means nothing,
and the candles their light the light.

Nothing is hid that once was clear,

then gone and then to come:
all the time, except the split
second, except—

What is there to say except to lament.

You live in the wrong place.

There’s no flowering time to come.

The hands fell off my watch in the night

and you counted the time
from this instant.

**********************
This Cento contains lines from the following poets: 

Kenneth Rexroth, John Koethe, Lola Ridge, Brenda Hillman, Martha Collins,  Melissa Kwasny, Katharine Tynan, Esther Louise Ruble, David Yezzi, Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, Jonathan Galassi, Michael Goldman, Robert Francis, and Lucille Clifton.

 

Caves

I never said much, but always wished more.

I often walked far, yet attended to less –

following the streams

climbing the hill

breathing the air.

I sometimes planned, yet often moved.

I always embraced, but waited alone –

catching a glimpse

grasping a hand

dancing a waltz.

I cherished the words, then let them sit idle.

I spoke them in caves, and the echoes moved on –

whispered and bluff

incarnate and gangling

encircled and sure.

I never said much, but always wished more.