a poem in my pocket

The bold birds

that completely ate 

the spring-green tops

off my carrot and radish rows,

scold loudly as I stoop 

to pick fresh lettuce;

accusing me 

of robbing their garden.

Grandma, in faded apron, bustles about kitchen;

pouring thick, black coffee for adults at chrome table.

We grandkids nibble homemade cookies and wait expectantly…

Grandpa deliberately fills and lights his sweet-smelling pipe;

he draws in and puffs out elusive smoke rings.

_____

Grandpa poses in parlor before us, his audience,

dramatically recites Longfellow’s poem, “The Village Blacksmith”;

we sit beneath reproduced painting by that very same name.

(Dad later tells me, when local blacksmith died penniless,

Grandpa quietly paid expenses for funeral and memorial stone.)

_____

Grandma, settles down into her upholstered rocker,

with colorful basket of assorted yarn skeins nearby;

needles click rhythmically as she chats about

annual winter trips to sunny California while knitting

warm pairs of mittens or slippers for our Christmas gifts.

_____

Grandpa & Grandma take us fishing by small dam

where we catch about a hundred whiskery bullheads.

Later, behind house by old pump, we clean them;

Grandpa and Dad behead and gut the wriggly fish;

Grandma batters and flips them into her magic frying pan.

_____

Both grandparents bravely face separate battles with cancer;

Grandpa, after sacrificing most of his stomach to surgery,

overcomes the disease, sucking candy instead of his pipe.

Grandma, who vows never to live in nursing facility, dies

among family at home and achieves her glorious victory!

_____

The toad

on the road

shoulda knowed

he’d be flat

like that…

~kersplat~

With the thinking of thoughts;

Be noble.

With the writing of words;

Be brief.

With the forming of friendships;

Be real.

With the giving of grace;

Be generous.

I just want a little space,

in my home

in my hours

in my heart.

yes, I need a little space,

to calmly think

to quietly listen

to clearly see.

so I make a little space,

to be

just me

purposely.

Welcome to the first post of my blog!

Guess that means I’m a newbie blogger…and you’re my new reader.

Thanks for stopping by and

please come again

because…

a poor poet, like some non-profit prophet,

feels compelled to speak…

then wonders if anyone is listening!