a poem in my pocket

daddy’s hands would hold mine when i was afraid,

fix my bike chain when it was loosened,

fold together in mealtime prayers, or

show me how to move chess pieces

---

yes, i have my father’s eyes

bluish-green or greenish blue

framed by long lashes and able

to see another’s point of view

---

as a teenager, i’d protest:

“papa, don’t preach!” but

that didn’t slow his sermons on

following everybody off a cliff

---

daddy could swear, i declare,

he swore in dutch at car engine

when i asked what those words meant

he commanded, “go to the house!”

---

no one could tease or make

me laugh as much as dad did;

every grin and guffaw conveyed

message, “your daddy loves you!”

---

A father poem, including song titles, linked to dVerse poets pub.

throughout the day

before my dad died,

i held my father’s hand;

once strong, fleshy

now feeble, bony

but still warm…

and still gripping

(though not for long).

as i left his room that night

with an “i love you”,

he raised his hand up

towards me in a

slow, deliberate wave.

sleigh me with holly-

festooned bouquet of

ruffled-candy carnations

and blood-red roses to

match metal runners…

though pine boughs dry,

love remains evergreen

__________

tempt me with dainty

toffee treats, dipped in

choice milk or dark, dusted

with crushed almonds to

tantalize taste buds…

crisp buttery crunch of

melt-in-your-mouth savor

______________

Full disclosure: toffee was gift from investment company and floral centerpiece from realtor who sold us our new home 🙂

pure and persuasive as spring rains

accumulate and wait for moonrise…

memos from heaven everywhere; next to

my feet…see, i am taking off my shoes.

bare branches as springboards for

flight, riding the breath of God?

onion heart…never getting all the way in

but what cardiologist God, wearing scrubs,

air around him clarified suddenly and

by that i think God means us to be

an inner fountain springing always fresh

to grow in His reflected image!

---

An ending poem of 12 lines for the end of the year and the 12th month as prompted by Laura Bloomsbury at dVerse. I chose ending lines from poems in Sea Glass by Luci Shaw, 2016. (In final line I changed pronoun “its” to “his”).

We’re grateful to live where autumn ripens into a real season. Fields of corn and soybeans dry, then die to be harvested by hungry combines. The trees shed their modest summer greenery and commence puttin’ on the ritz in shades of russet, rich brown, gold, and burnt orange.

We’ll admit to overdosing on pumpkin: picked from pumpkin patch, decorating our doorstep, carved into jolly jack-o-lanterns, made into moist muffins or perfect pie, sipped as pumpkin-spice flavored coffee or chai.

We all enjoy sitting closer with family or neighbors around blaze of bonfire, roasting sticks in hand, as the sun goes down. Even the dogs and cows put on warmer coats.

when outdoor temps dip

make s’mores in microwave

marshmallows puff up

Linking to dVerse poets where Linda Lee Lyberg hosts autumn haibun. Photo of my grandson who is 3 today!

autumn’s lost robin
standing guard in our back yard
protects last apple

in latin formality, the roman

catholic church names saints:

Augustine, Teresa, Peter, Francis,

but we protest(ants) read our

Bible as saying we’re all saints

(all who believe, anyway) yeah,

you…you…you, and me, too!

thattsa holy whole lotta sainthood

sooo y’all (all of us livin’ in da ‘hood,

that is), let’s live…gotta live alive!

live in the light of the knowledge

that we, yes, WE (you and me)

reflect the very Glory of God which

we see in dear face of Jesus Christ!!

and remember now, it’s HIS glory

(not our own) so live humble-like

‘cuz we’re just jars of clay holdin’

the most precious treasure, the

Holy Spirit…jars fired in his kiln

and offerin’ his light to dark world,

go on now, bro, let the light SHINE!!

___________________________

Inspiration from sermon by Pastor Tim Ouwinga (entitled “Called to Be Saints: Humility) and 2 Corinthians 4: 6 & 7…and my bro, Dale.

she’s mystery, an enigma
embodies fox or cougar
pretty in her day, now age
obviously wears wrinkles

bleach blonde, made-up
tattoo on forearm of her
butterfly babies flown,
ladybug kids now grown

husband dead and gone,
she’s borne a lonely grief
so empathizes with much-
younger divorced prodigal

encounter after club hours
exchange glances, numbers
packs her sequined t-shirts
touring country in his truck