‘Night Deer

‘Night Deer

When I was young, we lived the other way ‘round,
  so it seems not right that a child like I
  should bid good night to my Mother,
Who would kiss me on the cheek to dispel nights’ fears,
  turn out the light with a ‘good night, dear,’
  when I could count on the one hand my every year

Of course she died,
  the cause of that’s already known,
And she was not so much buried as sown
  upon the hillside with my Grandmother,
  with neighbors, friends and community elders attending,
  each coupled or single with headstones of their own
Then I could not say farewell,
  I pined, if asked I claimed allergic eyes were swelled,
  only stopping when I could no more abide,
She won’t return to my bedside,
  and that’s as much as I will tell

So on and on ‘till after thirty years
  our house had long been sold,
  my brothers and Dad long moved away,
And funny I called it ‘going home’ to return to a town
  where I had not lived for longer than the time I had lived there,
And at our house, which I could but drive by,
  comes the return of that conveniently scapegoated pollinosis
  to see our old driveway full of others’ bikes and toys
  with which I could not play
Yet I did recall that venerated yard of ground,
Unchanged, calling to be revisited
  before the setting of the sun,

When I parked upon the hill, walked up the gravel drive
  with eyes near swelling, on I strived,
When I saw - my surprise!
A fawn there, nested, curled asleep,
  cradled in an unmown nest above my mothers’ plot,
  her nose, covered under cloven hooves,
  I stood awe-staring, daring not a move,
Then she sniffed, and flaring my silent scent
  the fawn blew up in the air and with a turn
  dashed over beds where other’s beloved’s’ slept,
Her hooves resounding on the turf
  as would a bolting schoolgirl in two pairs of clogs,
Off to find her mother? I guess, where hallowed,
  I knew not where, but I knew somewhere,
And as the white blaze of the tail of the fawn disappeared in the shadow gloam,
  With her receding to Sheol,
    I caught me, whispering,
      ‘Good night, dear’

Why I Don’t Use Periods

Why I Don’t Use Periods

When the period tumbled off the page,
  I felt no distress, it brought me no rage,
It was as a bug, a shed old leaf,
  no matter to wrack me in pain or in grief,
I watched it pachinko down these same coupled lines,
  and then it swan dived off a well chosen rhyme,

As for why it did, I’m no grammarian,
  I can’t explain punctuation,
So I just wrote my next couplet,
  with words alive and fresh and new,
  which I doubled to a quatrain – meaning two, (couplets)
On, on I wrote, until I’d almost done it,
  I’d nearly writ a fricken’ sonnet,
When I saw that absent those absurd dots,
  a line is more that just one thought,

In a world where eddies bend and blend
  my thoughts a stream that never ends,
And just to justify ink blots unkind,
  does it make sense I must stop my mind?
No! I choose to write on in my way,
  exploring Natures’ naivete,

In birds a flutter, in mice who mutter,
  in falling stars and peanut butter,
By chickadees who sneeze with ease,
  by cats who scout them as they please,
So read on friends, no poem ends,
  just pardon me if now and then
I leave you with a gap, 

You’ll forgive me, I’m just round the bend
  to buy more notebooks and some pens  

The Long Eared Solstice

Here's another, posted out of season. I started writing it on the solstice, but it took me until now to finish as a decent first draft. Yet I think it's deserving.
And, come next Spring, I know some amateur poetry mags I can send it to, in plenty of time for their upcoming summer issue(s).

The Long Eared Solstice

On his hind legs he trims my lawn,
And as I watch him chew, I am bucolically amused,
  for this rabbit seems a bit confused
  as to who’s the rabbit and who’s the man,
Drowsy in the summer light, I think it better this
  than that I should wage this war, I Man,
  on the lawn with these arms;
  my electric weeding whip, and my tractor drove gas mower
Now, here at the dusk of Spring,
  he’s brought an appetite for the ready seeds borne by the green grass,
  sun toasted and gold atop the fine green stalks, tall as asparagus,
No happenstance our grass’ so lengthy,
  on this our longest day

Perhaps, should the rabbit like,
  I could craft him a little scythe,
That while he hays, he may make play
  at being our long eared solstice Father Time, 
  here for his yearly reap and sow,
Soon to leave his harvest standing tied in sheaves,
  left to dry here to a gold malt brown, before comes Autumn leaves, 
  which he’ll then carry to his burrow for his Winter lay away
And I laugh, no rabbit’s ever worked that hard,
  no, he’ll eat here ‘til he’s full enough,
  or he can no longer stand the stuff,
Then he’ll lope off to another’s yard
  where the clover blooms today,
Yes, that’s more the rabbit’s way

Tonight, when this our half past years highest sun
  has taken to bed under the waxing black cloak of night,
  our backyard rabbit will no more be seen,
  excepting his by his lamplight eyes
  should I catch him in my flashlights’ gleam,
So we’ll leave him, as it looks to be a cloudless night,
   and soon we’ll spy a rabbit I know revels in his toil,
For tonight the full moon burns, and there, when high,
  in that searchlight, in that gilt silver mirror ball,
  we’ll catch instead the old illusive rabbit of the moon!
As he’s compounds pure mirth’s elixir,
  the spice of life and love on Earth,
  from the curdles of the milky whey
  in his old wood butter churn

Ol’ Cats’ Friend

Ol’ Cats’ Friend

There, that chipmunk just ran along the porch ledge again,
  thin an edge as it is, it’s wide enough for him,
He runs there often, mostly ‘cause he wants to know,
  Ol’Cats’ not here
  and he knows the porch’s screen is strong, if Ol’ Cat were,
  he has no fear,
Yet still he hides behind the cedar beam,
  with his tail held in view, twitching, tempting,
  
I know what to say, watch,
   "Hey Mr. Chipmunk, how you today, looking for someone to play?"
Ol’ Cat, hearing me, strolls out on the porch through the open slide door,
   "Hey Ol’ Cat, shhh! Look, shhh1"
I tease and point toward the twitching brown worm,
  the bait on the end of a line,
Ol’ Cat just stares at my finger,
  "No, behind the post, see?"
And he takes the bait, Ol’ Cat lunges ahead,
  as chipmunk runs back along the ledge,
  pretending fast flight to the hedge,
While Ol’ Cat collides again head first into the screen,
  …if Chipmunks could laugh,

And would I’d kept a mark for every time
   I’ve seen them do this and thought ‘Ouch!"
Then chipmunks’ score would look like all
  of Ol’ Cats’ scratches on our couch

Is this a Rectory?

Ever notice how who you think you often isn't what you turn out to be?

Is this a Rectory?

Are you ready?
Who believes believes in
  the service of the extended hand,
  the retrieval of a sentient soul,
Sure you know what it means,
  yet are you ready?

Glorious morning,
  I delight in greeting on the front steps, I jest
"Good morning, program? Can’t tell the sinners from the saints without a program…"
  and, "Good morning, program…?" see?
Sunday morning smug is fun!

And we get them too,
  several appear just before the service ends,
  there’s cookies and coffee,
So when she walked up,
  her weathered sunburned face,
  her unwashed hair in need of Prell,
  the plastic bag under her arm,
She seemed no exception to me

"Good morning…"
  she interceded, verging on tears,
"I’m homeless, I’m hungry, Is this a Rectory?"
"There’s a mass about to start, a coffee thereafter, come back in a hour,"
   I watched her back as she turned and trod back the sidewalk, chiming
"God bless you, bless you," her voice a Victorian urchin,

Not until she was past the Post Office did I have the thought,
   I could have given her $5 dollars,
   pointed up the street where’s Dunks and Mickey-Dee’s,
I could have told her - there’s a food pantry, here, open Fridays, for Seniors,
   she likely was one,
   I could have… I'm standing here alone,

Over crackers and cheese I described her to the Warden,
   watching, attendant, though she didn’t come back…
I still believe I could have…
I know next time, be ready…

Now, forlorn, my Sunday smug bygone,
   may I see my self anew? 
For no poem is a moral,
   but the pain of self assessment, and
     the shrive of all conceit