Lilacs
There was a hardy row of bushes
behind my boyhood home,
annually filled with scented lilacs,
whose colors varied from year to year.
Likely something to do with the pH
or the changeable Wisconsin weather.
I mostly liked the light purple ones,
would cut a few for a tall glass
on the yellow formica kitchen table,
so when my blue-veined, fragile mother
came home from being on her feet
at our IGA grocery store,
she might smile at the gesture.
Here Shall My Heart Find its Haven of Calm
Dear Friend,
I find myself thinking,
of you, me, us.
It’s a lovely, gentle thought,
leaves me with a smile.
I don’t always expect nuance from myself,
yet once in a while, it just pops out,
most often in a poem,
frequently inspired by another person,
their writing or speaking.
Someone like you.
Sometimes, when there is a strong breeze,
it blows right through the hole in me
that was formed by my own
unmet dreams and expectations.
Not so when I think of you.
As busy as I know you to be,
I’ll only take a minute,
just to tell you to a certainty
that the world I know is
better because you’re in it.
(Title taken from a line in “June Sunset”, by Sarojini Naidu)
Nothing Isn’t Boring
The hummingbird we named Rubio
nervously guards his feeder,
as the tuxedo cat who came to us as Max
eats his own food way too quickly,
and, you know, I can’t imagine what I would do
with a Mega Millions jackpot.
The current pope, Francis, seems like a nice guy.
I bet he secretly practices the tango.
Whatever became of Fran,
after Kukla and Ollie passed?
I enjoy sitting in the dark with strangers,
watching a foreign film, thinking,
so much time available to
enjoy the company of oneself.
