Poems

Your lap, Your Chinese Checkers

The little eggshell bungalow
sporting the racket-making swing,
pink and blue hydrangeas
big as conch shells
and a woman who knew
a child needed
- to be held -- to be fed -
- to be sat in a corner -
- to be let out to dream
in the shade of a sweet-smelling
magnolia -
The little eggshell bungalow
that never moved
that never changed
the child knew
- that however long the wait,
would smell of sweet milk,
sugar, butter, Johnson's wax,
and lavender sachet -
- big pillowed rockers
and wide, rust-chained swing -
- cuppa-sugar lemonade
to cool a child
got too much sun...
Never, ever, picture a giant
bulldozer laying flat
a little eggshell bungalow
to make room for
anonymous.
- woman a knowing ghost -

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

De-Iced, now What?

It was as if she were a comet,

then he,

then she,

on and on, orbiting

faster and faster,

first gathering ice, then burning

it away by veering close

to the sun.

First he,

then she,

then up for grabs.

Neither chose to be

a comet. Certainly

not a pair.

What, and be content

to find pieces of oneself

flying into ether

while others loosen

from their moorings?

Admit the stratosphere

made him tingle,

and her.

Hot what she wanted,

and he.

To fly at supersonic,

nay, supernatural,

speed.

If not melt and join,

come dangerously

close to touching

the untouched

in her,

in him.

Skin sloughs, tough.

Flew, didn't we.

People gasped

as they looked up.

Now what little's left

has hardened

or shattered, perhaps

beyond repair.

Ah, well, sighs,

she, sighs he,

got to feel

the high.

A l l Rights Reserved

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&