Our House 

A light atop the stairs

glows warmly as homework is done

to AM radio tunes caught by

a portable transistor.

The TV is on downstairs.  Must be

Gunsmoke or Bonanza.

In the basement hobby nook

a model airplane is being built.

The smell of glue comes up

through the kitchen register.

But that can't overpower the aroma

of cookies getting toasty golden

in the old gas oven.

Scratching on the back door ~

our four-legged family member wants

to come back in from the chill night air.

And I wonder then, pausing at play ~

a small, plastic army jeep in one hand,

a question of great depth urging the

other hand to hold me steady as I

go up the stairs to my room ~

will life always be this perfect?

 

Grasshopper and Me

A voice moving

up from distant breaths left not taken

and between glimpses never had before,

reflects the Thanksgiving Day sun

with fractal perfection.

Landing from yesterdays when

time was not so short,

in flight as an extended walk

in green skin with striped eyes

and red-barbed legs resting

upon my proffered hand as perch

to gaze, perhaps, as do I

into the white streaked with blue of

afternoon sky,

this little friend

speaks the silence of understanding that

we are not predator and prey

to each other.

It, as am I,

is just watching the world

and its players rehearse

until they get to leave for their

performance

elsewhere.

Grasshopper and me.

EXCERPTS  From:  What is Was Now the Chemistry of Being

                          1943

Her hair a subtle expression of

dynamic order with the three bows

in back where it was pulled together

allowing her long, slender neck

to command attention beneath

her charming face so able

to reduce a man to silence.

Her small but full breasts clothed

in a brief halter with her midriff

bare, taunted the imagination

as moments festooned the hours

while past and future were

whitewashed in music even before

her delicate hand lowered the

needle to the record on the gramophone.

Her tight skirt, just brushing the bottom

of her pretty knees, inspired a wandering mind

to take a breath as overwhelmed eyes

caught the way the heels she wore so sculpted her calves.

I lit a cigarette and may have inhaled it with one draw.

All I'm sure I still remember right were her eyes and

her sighs and her smile as we danced.  I'd swear in a court

that it was all just fiction; a fabrication; a fantastic

wonder no one would believe could be the truth.

Not even myself, at first.  But then, sleep finally took us,

cuddling as we fought against the reality of

morning coming;

hours ticking like sign posts brilliant and vulgar,

reminding us that soon, the day would be gone altogether

and I'd be gone off to war.  Now I remember hoping

that the years since then are the dream and I will soon

awaken in her caressing arms,

never to leave her again.