Bower

A raucous rain
pelts the bower,
where petals strain
to guard the flowers.

A wind-blown Palm
bows to green sod,
offers a frond
for an unseen god.

The pond bubbles
in tiny cores,
water troubles
at the grassy shore.

A gator peers
a smile so sad,
with ancient leer
amid Lilly pads.

The ducks drift by
with no concern,
quack and cry, and,
moon the shore in turns.

Bower petals
feed the flora,
as kept kettles
release sweet water.

I view the scene
this shower show,
through sprinkled screen
an old dream, I know.

TP/MMXV

Erato

I lounge on the lanai
and listen to a tattoo
of rain drops,
on screens and ledges
and storm shutters.

Streaks of lightning leap across
a flat Florida landscape
in nano-second bursts,
silent as my goldfish.

As I momentarily
drift off in the silence,
contemplating, "whatever."

I am jolted into the reality
of a long afternoon by
thunder
that I swear, has to be,
a special Florida
thunder.

A sound that is decibels
above,
that which I have heard up-north.

So's I take my journal and
jot down notes of poetic
significance and …

Wait,
I've already written
pieces on rain
and thunder
and lightning.

My muse Erato, in the form of a Force Majeure.

Write a poem about a Frank Sinatra Centennial.
Be a Romeo or Paagliacci.
A Medal of Honor recipient or a Goldbrick.

Something. Anything.

I awaken
from my hiatus
in the humid heat.

My pen found
on the lanai floor.

I write nothing.
©TP/MMXV

Josephine

We play Monopoly
under the Apple tree.

Mid-20th Century,
on the cusp of revolution,
on the verge of denying
Revolutionaries their own.

Josephine,
runs into the cellar,
to the back yard,
to the Fig tree.

She harvests four figs,
one for each Monopolist.

As we pass “GO”
and “Collect”,
sweet memories.

TP.

Richie/183

Dead at thirty.

The RR tank-car is a marvel
of engineering with steel
configured in shapes that
mesh like Legos.

The sides of the car
are steel canvasses
to the artists who leave
imprints, larger than life,
in Comic Sans font,
six feet high.

Richie/183,
is writ large on this car.

Jack Kerouac would have
urged the artist to,
“ride the rails” himself.

But,
the artist is dead,
and how he travelled in life
is how he travels in death:

Riding the rails, vicariously,
and like death, eternally.

TP/2015
(For my nephew Richard/RIP.)

David

David/3x6

David’s rhythmic breathing/
My ten PM night-cap/
My sunrise wake-up call.

******************************

David/5x12

I am enchanted by the rhythm of your Being.
Walking, I know you by the rhythm of your gait.
I awaken and out of the fog I feel the
rhythm of your heart beat as we embrace spoon-like.

When you are gone, the metronome comes to a stop.


TP/4/11/15

Fireworks

Driving on Route 1 north;
Nine-PM, Fourth-of-July.
Silent sky lights flash
in my rear-view mirror.

Booms ahead and beside me,
as towns light-up America.
Roads and parking lots empty.

Exceptional America,
defying Zeus with
artificial thunder and lightning.

America where are you?

TP

Walkin' thoughts

Walkin’ is a joy.

Guilty as all get-out,
if I don’t get out.

A stranger smells like coffee
as he glides by on his bike.

I keep pace on my walk by chanting;

“The Fort Dix Boogie.”

“Yer left/yer right/yer left,right,left!
Yer had a good home but you left,
yer right,
Joanie was there when yer left,
yer right, sound off . . .”

I would substitute Jonnie
for Joanie.
“In the Army, in the Closet.”

Sweet Gatorade morphs
into salty sweat.

Soaked in the Florida morning
heat and humidity.
Goin’ home to a power-wash,
hot, tepid, cold.

Washin’ dirt and grime and sweat away,
but not my thoughts.

I dissect my walk:
Light/light/RR tracks/light.
Light/RR tracks/light/light.

Walkin’ is a bore.


TP.