Thursday, January 21, 2016

The Mean Hours

Precautions being taken, the alert
Having been given, warnings offered twice,
A bland occurrence, gentle, warm, and nice,
Was suddenly experienced. No hurt,
No trauma, no disgust. Like sweet dessert,
Fresh pie or angel food cake by the slice,
It came and went. Nobody paid the price,
No woman cried, no poor fool lost his shirt.

So are we happy now? Did everyone
Find joy, contentment, satisfaction, peace?
Did all the sufferers find their surcease
From pain and worry? Are the mean hours done,
The harsh words over? Will we see the sun
Because there was no hawk among the geese?

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

No Glory

My northern garden, never well maintained,
Has failed to blossom. When I fail like this,
I choose among exasperation, bliss,
And puzzlement, the last being ingrained.
My friends are unimpressed: my hands are stained,
The grass is brown, the snakes rattle and hiss,
And, aiming for the harvest moon, I miss;
The moon is shrinking, and the stars have waned.

This may have been an uninspiring gaffe,
An error, a mistake. I realize
No glory, only endless compromise,
A spot where all the meaner children laugh.
But I continue, and I plant my staff
And pray the roses and tomatoes rise.