Category Archives: nostalgia

Preparations

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When I prepare the yard for winter,
the time when all is stark and lost,
the dead have wilted, scruff and ragged –
and I remove the chaff and croft.

As I gird the garden, whether
further growth is wont or not,
bedded mounds of soil and leavings
cover greener, fledgling thoughts.

Seeded verse on sorted papers
things that sleep beneath decay
seedlings of the spring and morrow
beauty fit for flow’red cliche’

Here I leave the hopes of summer
warm enchantments, an enclave
hidden from the weather – bitter
though purposed to save.

Passage

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October leaves me in thatches,
between the warm beaches
and pale wintered branches.

I remember the autumn,
the slow scale of mornings-
the decorative fallen.

I see her in color,
the amber-crisp sunlight
that touches to cover.

For moments, I tarry-
enveloped and yielding
to her fay and fairy.

I reach for her hand
and she vanishes,
my visions are damned

in the moment between
burgeoning summer
and winter’s pale serene.

Building

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Knocking about the blue Mylanta bottles
we built forts and cities
in the shadow of a giant.
A bear of a man
– his friends called him Bully-
loud snores elevated
from his vinyl recliner
distant thunderclouds-
our war sounds a reminder.

Matchbox cars in play,
my brother and me,
with little green army men
their guns raised high above their heads.
We stormed the blue bottle castle as he slept.
The laughter of Korman and Conway
floating through the room.

He took us crawfishing once-
and to pick pecans.
He was Santa one early Christmas morning,
and I knew it.
But, I never knew what he liked to do,
or his favorite color, whether it was blue.
He built things,
but he tore them down too.
He helped Daddy build our carport,
but he was drunk most of the time,
so Dad sent him home.

He was just a big grandfather man
asleep in his vinyl chair again,
like a giant slumbering in his lair
in the mountains high above the cities fair
and fortresses of blue Mylanta.

*********
I wrote this poem in 2006, and just recently found it again. I reworded a few lines to make it less prose-more-poem. Relationships are sometimes complicated. My grandfather passed away many years ago- just a few years after these memories. And I’ve found that I never really knew him. But I think of him often.

Notions

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In a gift for someone that I once knew-
A few moments wrapped
in crisp paper with string.
each one a mating of calm and called.

Intent on these penetrating emotions-
they are patterns of poetry from memories
underneath the neat taped corners.

They could be jumbled and incoherent,
but I prefer them pressed and bound
and self-contained.
Thumb-pressure creased,
Holding the pieces
firmly together.

Notions of affection
convened for her disposal
will be mailed
in the morning.

***********
A reworking of a poem that I first wrote in 2006.

lagniappe

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Because mornings emerge from misty bayous
and moss that hangs and touches the sky-
a reflection in glass.
Because the thickness in the air wraps
the sunlight and holds it close.
The moments are a drawl, and a legacy of
stillness waits-
it waits between each drawing breath,
lingers between each morning glory
and rain lily-
a sweet kiss from a drowsy boo
and its momentary entanglements.
Even before the first note sounds
the blues, there is beauty conjured in the
slim to none spell-
and it is some kind of wonderful,too.

a foothold in the daisies

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The clouds are just now learning how to speak.
There’s a foothold in the daisies,
and a slow descent of water from the creek
The sun is rising amber, slow and weak.

The melody of morning turns
it’s ear upon the repeat cooing dove
and smells of honeysuckle
wafted in from somewhere down the grove.

A single tuft of flowers out among
the complete scene of hurried traffic,
other places here and in-between-
a foothold in the daisies –
a shared embrace,
devotion to a yellow speck in space.

And safe return to where began this whole mystique,
and I am learning -just now- how to speak.

Details

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I remember the blue in her eyes,
though often they were green –
a wistfulness, when she tilted her head,
sentiment at the seams.

Her fingertips, absently tracing the rim
of a cup or a saucer, or both.
The governed expanse of the contour
revealing as is, clothed.

To lean in, whisper lure and yearning,
so bold and sacred, so preferred –
then settle back in tidal fashion
sands and beaches bared – secured.

I recall the mounting balance
that melody and rhythm bind,
a song there at the nucleus
hastened,
fresh and primed.

I have felt the blue of her ocean,
my eyes remember the scene.
And I am the breeze that comes off the water
pensive and longing my dreams.

Lay

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Careful-
With that song
and dance, the one that tweaks their
minds. By chance,
do you rent your inspiration?
Your soul, your lust and legislation
all inclusive-
gone buffet.

A little here and there’s Okay.

Take salad tongs
to prep your bowl
with crawfish, okra,
mac and rolls.
And when the trip down line’s complete,
you feel the ache swell in your feet.

Then I could sit and give massage
til metaphors spill
and rhymes barrage.
The song transforms from swing to pop
a subtle lay with ballad stops.

The night with moonlight’s shade is set,
and you and I,

we pirouette.

Untitled

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My vista has left.

It got up and walked away,
taking its burgeoning poetry
and florets of blush
just beyond the hill-
where I last see a wrinkle
in the day.

Perhaps, it will sail away
and live at sea, content in knowing
that final curtains are best
without remorse. Every green patch
a relic of what was bewitching for me.

Tossed by storms in darkness,
with no one to notice.
Cowed in heat and sun.
Awoken in grey mists
that cling and impede
their run.

Maybe, one day it will land aground
after years adrift. Someone will see
and write words that begin a scene anew.

The beauty of the vista, adorned
with yearning – causes me to run
with all abandon
to meet the last wrinkle
of the day.

*****************
It is National Poetry Writing Month. I’ve participated in the past, but I don’t think I will this year – time will not allow me a post every day. I’ve been on a bit of a down-turn lately with inspiration for writing and experiencing my own emotional lows. This poem conveys a little of that struggle, the loss of “vision” – though I’m not sure I’m totally happy with it. I share it anyway, as a work in progress, because writing is something I must continue to do.

I don’t know why, I just do. I hope readers will continue to read.

All the best.

noted

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it begins as a wisp
neither taut nor explicit
a scribbled idea
on a plain yellow post-it,
sitting for weeks
til the stickiness faded
then moved ’round the table
it’s purpose degraded
and ultimately lands
in pile, curled – misled
like so many of my thoughts
of desire go unread.