POEMS

BUTTERFLY

We sat beside the lake in the sun's evening light And watched to see it slowly dip from sight. The table on the terrace seemed to fit our mood; The air was warm and still as we ordered food. Our drinks were served and raised to toast The quite and serene millieu we love most. But , wait, our space would be no longer ours

DEATH AT 84

Death at 84 Years (After reading an obituary from a Florida newspaper) Limbs withered of muscle, skin draped from joint to joint, Languishing in a warehouse of aging, declining bodies, A man, no longer caring for his manhood, Decides, in his dissolving, wavering mind, To breath more freely the sparkling air of Florida. In his innocent wandering he encounters a denizen of the swamps. It senses his helplessness and so his life becomes part of another life. Does his spiritless, unaware body now respond

CLONE

Whereas the scientific news of cloning One sheep exactly like another Brought fear and doubt in many minds, I, on the other hand, did feel a thrill and Highest hopes at such a contemplation. Looking deeply into inmost thoughts of mine I saw a child of three or four as me. A face with wide and searching eyes To understand the world that she could see. It was a painful past I conjured up

A PERFECT SPECIAL DAY

It takes a special kind of day Perhaps the smell of fresh-cut hay, Or a certain coolness that tempers The bake of the beaming sun. It can’t be a hot summer day When the air is stifling and humid.. Spring and fall are the best For dogs to find a spot to lie In the grass, stretched out full length Appearing almost dead, sound asleep Absorbing every warming ray.

ON AGING

I will always have at my fingertips Some warm and moist and loving lips. While I have my senses and my muscles move, I’ll enrich my life with caring and love. I will not slump o'er my coffee cup At a twinge of pain and then give up. My brain won't dwell on strife and hate But be used instead to learn and create. The time ‘til my death won't be empty space; I’ll be up and running to the end of the race.

CREPE MYRTLE

In winter your smooth tawny limbs stretch out like a Siamese cat’s legs. In summer your blossoms are reminiscent of a woman’s ruffled party dress. Customers have questions, you have answers. Display the most frequently asked questions, so everybody benefits.

NESTING

Father’s Day The look of ecstasy on your face, The crook’d finger luring me on, Drew me to follow to the window place Where I peered and craned thru a leafy frond. Highly animated, you directed my attention And whispered “Quick, look thru the leaves”! What it was, you had forgotten to mention. Oh, yes, I see her now as she weaves Each twig with her beak so deftly and neat. A female cardinal was making a nest Just outside our window a few short feet. We watched her working at Nature’s behest. With sparkling eyes you breathed with a gasp “She’s raising her family so close to us.” I took your hand, holding it tight in a clasp. We tried not to start her with all of our fuss. If customers can’t find it, it doesn’t exist. Clearly list and describe the services you offer. Also, be sure to showcase a premium service.

By the next day she had completed her nest And spent much of her time just sitting there. She’d fly out of the bush from her place of rest If we’d just happened by or pass too near. We foresaw young fledglings as if parents anew. But something went wrong, it was not to be. She abandoned her plans without a clue. There would be no hatchlings for us to see. Saddened we were by this turn of events Yet glad we had shared this encounter together. Our own nest endures when life makes no sense As it does through days of bright sunny weather. Because you find beauty in a cardinal’s nest , I chose you as father to our offspring; and say, While we can enjoy summer days at their best, I wish you great happiness on this Father’s Day.

SLEEPING WITH DOGS

Today I walked in the cool autumn air After days of unceasing, pounding rain. The dogs were playfully hunting a lair Of the usual gopher down in some drain. We all, Missy, Chi-chi, Ubu, and I Needed to work off the tenseness of muscles That were tight from disuse in the days gone by; I with walking and they with some tussles. We finally grew tired , out of breath, and chilled So we headed for home and the warmth inside. When I saw that a fire was lit I was thrilled And the dogs seemed content as they sat by my side. It wasn’t long before the sofa invited me To relax and enjoy the warmth of the flames. The dogs followed suit and I could see They wanted to join me without calling their names.

So, I found myself there with a dog in my lap And two on the floor with their eyes closed tight. An animal’s warm body for a comforting nap, I may even have them with me in bed tonight

STRANDED

They found you in a stubbled cornfield Anxiously pacing back and forth, Your flabby, pendulous teats swinging to and fro. For days curious and wondering humans watched you, Brought bails of hay for shelter from the bitter cold, Tried to read your mind and devotion to that spot. Finally captured and given a warm bed and food, You then brought forth one lone pup From your weak, malnourished form. You were so thin and ill, Even this tiny creation could not survive. And then you died. Why were you abandoned, To yearn and pace across that field? Was your circling and pacing a last attempt to understand ?

FOLK SONGS BY GRANDFATHER WILKINSON

There was a woman in our town, in our town did dwell. She loved her old man dearly but one just twice as well. Chorus: Fa la la de do de um, fa la la de do de um She went to the drug store to see if she could find Any aid or anything to put her old man blind. You go and get nine marrow bones and make him suck them all. And when he gets the last one sucked, he won’t see any at all. She went and got nine marrow bones and made him suck them all

And when he got the last one sucked he couldn’t see any at all. “I’m tired of my life, I’m tired of my wife, I’d go to the river and drown myself if someone’d push me in” “If you’re tired of your life and tired of your wife, If you’d go to the river and drown yourself, I’ll push you in.” The old woman stepped back to get a great long run; The old man stepped aside and in the river she run. She first began to kick and then began to swim. The old man got a great long pole and pushed her farther in. She next began to kick and then began to squall And all the old man had to say was, “I can’t see any at all.”

TERCETS

The mice who had stolen two ears from the store Of grain, and had returned for more.

Scampered off when feet were heard upon the floor. Tramping into the candy store.

A curly headed little boy Lost his money upon the floor.

The small tired boy had a thankful look When casting his line into the brook

Felt the tug of a fish on the hook.

Warm and fresh’ning April showers Waken all the sleeping flowers

And give them drink until they die.

DESSERT

Heart-shaped, swollen, the size of golf balls, These red, seed covered berries I’ve chosen to eat. I washed them and sliced them, their flesh like an apple; Then tossed them with sugar to let them get sweet. I portioned some pound cake and layered the fruit on Not forgetting the whipped cream in a crowning mound. I took one bit of this tasteless, mutated concoction And wondered whence our modern taste buds were bound. I had tried to prepare a strawberry shortcake But the proper ingredients have long been forgotten We now have berries that can survive long trips And be of firm consistency so that they don’t get rotten. In the time of my youth when I went looking For the tiny red berry full of fragrance and wild, It was treasured and sought for over brier and field Yet we now have a substitute with flavor so mild.

The day we’d go picking was full of excitement We’d don our long trousers to keep out the chigger And scour meadows and hill sides for little red dots Their flavor contained in the size of a pea and no bigger. At home, my mother, was ready to finish the job Of turning our harvest into jam, jelly or a cake. She’d mash up some berries and slice the rest And pour all this over sweet biscuits she’d make. We’d wait a while for the juice to soak in And then have huge servings with homemade whipped cream. The dessert I had recently with mutated berries In no way approximates my reminiscing dream.

BEAUTY OF THE ROSE

Approaching closely to admire a bloom I discovered an insect had feasted upon The welcoming petals of a favorite rose, Disfiguring and marring the pink-orange burst. Yet, after discarding the marauding beetle I came closer and touched my nose To the center of this spiller of color Drawing in deeply the trace of fresh apricots. That one breath told me the damage done To it’s lovely petals by a natural pest Had not destroyed this elegant rose. It’s beauty prevailed, unmarred in my view.

A WOMAN'S DOCTOR

As age and fading youth Pulled and stretched each microscopic cell, I sought you out in need and desperation. Your talents as a surgeon would cut and stitch A newer strength into my bodies weakened floor. An unexpected outcome was a sensual loss, A possibility often disavowed by some. I looked to you to find again those old responses. Yet barely able, I spoke of deprivation That cannot easily be disclosed to anyone. You listened to my argument then prescribed The longed-for link to bathe my famished cells. The difference was between a spark and not. Because your sensitivity and compassion could Transcend the mask a doctor often wears,

The difference was between a spark and not. Because your sensitivity and compassion could Transcend the mask a doctor often wears, You are now a fragment in a luminous mosaic Of treasured beings pieced together in my heart Only to be shattered by a ripple from its last beat.

GLEE OVER THE SELFISH GENE

As I kiss you, the neurons tingle Around my lips, moist and warm. As we hold each other, innumerable processes Directed by centuries of trial and error, Are brought into action. You and I know we have been programmed For this desire for touch and closeness. Our selfish genes have a mind of their own Which we cannot change. Their plan is beyond our sensory perception But understood from the beginning of time. Yet somehow, midst our bliss, we Laugh that we have fooled our genes

HOW I LOVED YOU

More than your soft smooth warmth when I touch you, More than lying next to you with the weight of your head on my lap, Just to be near you gives me comfort and delight. The beauty of your sleek body with all its defined musculature And all the little lumps along your back that signify your spine. Your pungent odor intoxicates my nose and brain, The moistness in the corner of your drooping lips is endearing .

Even when it sometimes turns into a drop of drool. Knowing you’ll be there to greet me with your gruff excited voice, And last of all, your unconditional love for me. In all these ways you fill my need to share my life with dogs.

BASEBALL

Were evenly spread and helped hold his cup. He’d take one bite of his hotdog and bun And look toward the field as the team made a run. His son was offered a bite of own dog as well And got a sip of his drink while the batter was Belle. I noticed the father was so careful and neat Never once getting cross in spite of the heat. I wondered if the son got much from the game Or whether he noticed any players of fame. But I know that he’ll grow with a wonderful father Who considers his son a joy not a bother. Observing these two was better that winning. I was glad to leave after the seventh inning. As I sat in the stands awaiting a bunt I scanned the people in the rows in front. Bored with the Indian’s lack of a score.

My eyes spied a man and boy of four.

It didn’t take long to ascertain that They were father and son in his Indian’s hat. While I watched, the father quite often glanced At his son and smoothed his hair to enhance. It wasn’t long before they seemed in the mood For a hotdog, the classical game time food. The father made sure that the mustard and ketchup

Were evenly spread and helped hold his cup. He’d take one bite of his hotdog and bun And look toward the field as the team made a run. His son was offered a bite of own dog as well And got a sip of his drink while the batter was Belle. I noticed the father was so careful and neat Never once getting cross in spite of the heat. I wondered if the son got much from the game Or whether he noticed any players of fame. But I know that he’ll grow with a wonderful father Who considers his son a joy not a bother. Observing these two was better than winning. I was glad to leave after the seventh inning.

ARTISTS

Atavistic, bicameral brains. Wildlly spewing electrons.

Splattering ripped souls And their own torn bodies onto canvas, Rolling discarded friends thru presses To create prize- winning splots. Viciously spitting seeds from “sour grapes,” Hitting the vital organs of competitors like lead shot, Burning with the lust for acceptance.

On being rejected by an art show.

CONSTANCE POIS ART AND POETRY

A BLEND OF POETRY AND ART