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Aloning on New Year’s

Tried to share her in a poem,
But the heart would not scan.
Trying to forget all about her—
I fail, trying as hard as I can.
Winds turned to colding;
The heater runs all day;
I can see each wispy breath—
Singled out in about every way.
Staple-gun together some words,
But joy and doubt won’t rhyme.
Aloning it again on New Year’s—
It’s Love for sometwo else’s this time.
But, it’s all good for this po little coda.
And, yes please, a lil more rum for my soda.

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A Gifting

A breeze freshened, then turned cold,
Another old story now to be retold:
Of seasonal wishes and hopes reborn,
Chances taken even if burnished by scorn.
Crossing the tracks, he walked into Tiny Tim’s store
Sunlight followed him in just like the weeks before
The shopkeeper smiled to see the young man arrive
Another payment to place, was it number four or five?
Four payments left and then soon Christmas comes,
That time of roasted chestnuts and puddings with plums.
Back to Cross Grocery and shelves to stack and refill
Earning his money for rent, food, and that toy store bill.
Twas a sudden quirk storm that roared into town:
Rain, billowing snow, then sleet rocketed down.
An SUV late for choir practice risked running the ringing gate,
But the Autotrain was faster, STOP!
…but, too late.
The clerk flew across the tracks to help if he could;
He pulled out the shopkeeper, nice old Josiah Wood,
And a couple of customers getting their purchases done;
Then, stayed with that car driver, trapped and sore alone.
Car and train had finished their dance at the toy store back door;
All happily survived, but that prepaid toy was of course no more.
Christmas Eve, and the clerk had just walked back home
To start his Ursa chili with his Woolworth’s pots of chrome.
A knock on the door, and oh my goodness, there on his stoop stood
That railroad councilwoman, and on crutches, Mister Josiah Wood!
Beckoning them to come in and get out of the cold,
Our clerk blushed in worry about what could be told.
Mister Wood then handed our clerk a box as he brushed away a tear:
The Lionel Train Set the clerk had been paying for over the past half year.
Pop-eyed, our clerk struggled to make good on giving proper appreciation,
The councilwoman said it’s they who wished to reward his aid and application.
The clerk still said thank you, for this most important gift, was meant for another—
A gentleman at the Ashland Nursing Home, a railroad friend of his departed mother.
The wind slowed to a pause for this, a new holiday silent night.
Twinkling merrily did the Christmas lights make for a sweet sight.
And, for our good neighbors who may forget old holiday rhymes,
It’s nice to remember: “For it is good to be children sometimes.”

A Leaf of Plot

Death raised his scythe on high
The Final Answer was at hand
No more questions broached
No replies begged or risked demand

The leaf at last let it all go
Fluttered to its demise below
The wind added its sighed contempt
Blew our leaf scuttering to a future undreamt

Down the path with attention rapt
A 17-nothing wrought prose off the rack
Laurie screamed—the leaf brushed her face!
Characterization blanched: there’d be no turning back

A writer in a Nature, freed of pretense
Her plot thickened and made Total Sense
Death winced scurrilously and not too haughty
17-nothing conjured twists bland and who knows—naughty?

The wind richened and hurried our protagonists along:
A dead leaf and a fallowed teenager trying to catch the song

As It Will

Small people, little people
The Wind knows nothing of these
Big times, noble times
The Rains still fill the trees
Grand Love, Heartbreak
Discover your knees
One death, another last breath
Time passes as it will please

A month ends, a new week shines
No right answer calls
Newborn cries, an old lady sighs
A poor candle spits and stalls
Sun glows, Moon rises
Cold blusters thru the walls
A bell rings, the horde finds the access road
Time and midday traffic stalls

Little people, my people
Earthkind teeming all around
Mere races, many-coloured faces
Trying to keep above ground
Have Faith with Freedom to saith~
I disagree with what you propound
Singers spiel, Dancers reel
Look to what Music has found

Another death, one last breath
Time passes as it will please

A Wind, Promiscuous

A freshening wind
Promiscuously winds down the creek
Orange-black cat darts under the eaves
Two dead branches low as if to speak

A door squeaks, opens
The firmament is shaken
The cat shrieks
LIGHTS BLINK THEN ALL IS BLACK

It matters
A grin, a dripping of red pools
Fluttering wings escape
How does the future shape
Our dreams, if only ‘if only’ were so
Old and 60 and alone
Alone

A raining morning
Turn around
Floods in Wimberley
One dead, two missing
Happiness cancelled
Rescheduled for a drier time
Happy All Saints’ Eve

Oops

O, what howling winds blew through this abyss.
The vaulted vacuum where once grey and white matters
Did grand calculations and cogitated on great thoughts.
Plans made. Recipes deciphered. Memories stored?
Now.
Nothing.
Just a great galloping gale upon which one
Could hear, just barely hear, if given the feeling that
Some small something might be learned from
This breeze in the bottomless confines between bone pillars
Of insignificance—a little message—
One could, might maybe hear:

I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’ll never forget our anniversary again.