Posted on Leave a comment

Lottery

Money worries over, my pen writes,

when I win the one hundred nineteen

million dollars a number fixed in my brain

that will mean my money worries are over

a party thrown in the house soon

to be fixed up better than new

no way anymore for the rain to creep in

and drip drip drip in yet another new place

the grey cloud of unease replaced

by the cozy knowing that I and we

are warm and dry inside our sturdy home

unassailed by torrents or only sprinkles

of rain that fall and isn’t it funny

how a person contemplating a windfall of

one hundred nineteen million dollars

thinks firstly and lastly of something like

a roof that no longer leaks not

a convertible car

transAtlantic cruise

second home in the south of France

but only the luxurious thing of staying

cozy and dry while looking out the

windows at a romantic thunderstorm?

Posted on Leave a comment

Memorial

Rainy morning following a rainy night

and the little creek where my young sons

played recklessly rubber rafting after

a storm, shooting under the street

to come out on the other side

now rushes by without them.

In the woods lately my dogs

have been troubling the rotting

carcass of a snapping turtle caught

in the roots of a creek-bound tree.

I hope this steady rain has

whooshed it on downstream

making one less spot for me to avoid

out there where creatures lay just

as they’ve fallen

without ceremony

or marker.

For three weeks now in those woods

a cross, flowers and candles

have stood guard over the memory

of a young girl younger by far

than all my sons who seems

to have flung her life away

from atop the bluff

all her hope somehow

fallen to none.

And just that morning I

anticipating the return home

of my two far-flung sons

had wandered with my dogs

in our carefree way

those very woods

where that girl sought

solace by choosing

an end to the only thing

we ever truly own.

Posted on 4 Comments

Lazy

Lazy today, all.

Dogs, young lovers, solitary son, mother.

Bone tired, scratchy eyes, refusing to rise.

Lazy lazy lazy.

The small flat bear lies face down

at the foot of my bed as if even he

cannot be bothered cannot stand

the thought on this quiet day.

Clocks have artificially taken

an hour from our night.

Rain drips lackluster

too tired to pour.

Air does not stir.

Lazy lazy lazy.

Having sprung forward

the day itself

seems to have found

its energy now spent.