Poem for April 26

Storm

With a flash, a crack, you threaten my life.

I defy your hunger, sit on the side porch swinging

on this metal glider—a parched August afternoon.

You gush in, wipe sweat beads from my forehead,

blow around my ankles, pull wet hair from my shoulders,

open my shirt with your breath.

I drop my head back, inhale your promises, listen

as your rain pelts every oak and maple tree that lines

the street to my house. Ever near to me you draw,

then blow on by like some lover’s afterthought.

Patty Cole

Poem for April 25

MARKERS

At first our lives were measured in hours and days,

Marked by sleeping, crying, nursing, diaper changes and first smiles.

Next it was measures in weeks and months,

Marked by first steps, teeth, first words, stuffed animals and birthday photos.

Then it was in years,

Marked by new siblings, best friends, puberty, summer jobs, drivers’ ed,

            graduations and beer parties.

At the peak it was in decades,

Marked by marriage, babies, new cars, family vacations, job changes and

            new houses in unfamiliar cities.

Then it became years and months again,

Marked by grandchildren, retirement parties, social security checks, class

            reunions and travels to exotic lands.

And now we live by days and hours again,

Marked by SMTWTFS pillboxes, doctors’ visits, dietetic meals and the

            obituaries of old friends.  

Poem for April 24

Layers

How easily happiness begins by dicing onions,

You dice. You cry. You get it out.

For a dash of drama, put “The Warsaw Concerto”

on the stereo. It peels your outer layers

and pries open Sunday confessions.

The outer rim of the song, like the onion

is strong. A torrent of spice and tears

runs wildly over my cutting board.

The heart is splayed open with the horns’ fortissimo.

When the onions are transparent and mellow,

the Concerto has dwindled down to a soft, still voice,

the piano sings and the onions whisper in the pan.

Patty Cole

Poem for April 23

MELODIES

  

The melodies of my mind are heard by many.

Some smile and hum along.

Some frown and turn away.

Some don’t listen at all.

The melodies of my heart are heard by a few.

They applaud the finer harmonies,

Tolerate the sour notes,

And patiently continue to listen.

The melodies of my soul are heard only by God,

Who forgives all the discord,

Tells me to keep playing,

And gives me free lessons.

Herb Wakeford

Poem for April 22

Aubade

This morning I warm

to the notion we own

twenty-five years

and seventeen acres

out where they stopped

planting street lights long ago.

I hit the alarm for five more

minutes, curl to my left, lick the salt

on the back of your neck, stop

at the scooped out curve of your

lower back.

You don’t move. I get up.

Fry sausage.

Patty Cole