PEAR Genetics surely have a role to play, But Nature versus Nurture is a ploy To obviate the questions that pertain To searching for the future in the past. “What’s past is prologue,” someone said. And I care less who said it — but to whom has piqued my fancy more than interest, Can deja vu be fashionably undressed? Whoever said it surely had a point, But why waste time engaging in a lark Unless there is a moral that I missed. The future loves to keep us in the dark.
Her hair was not on fire…
PEAR Her hair was not on fire But the sulphur swamped the mind Regardless And even gentle mists May saturate the mood With toxins. So when a clump of stubborn threads Affixed its sticky self To pant legs What else could terror do But flee an All-Star recluse Brown, of course At least three laps around The living room…
PEAR I see my mother fondly now - Since rude, uncivil visitors who lived Inside our heads, Have taken leave of sentences And senses too of dread. The fog of condescension lifts – Once airing grief has lost its steam Exasperation mists Throughout the distant afternoons Where reminiscence sits. I like to think that Time won’t march - For Mom has gone to her reward To find her just desserts – Like Autumn Woodland, Apie cake And jitterbugs where nothing hurts. I hope that other fractures heal. As family ties have slipped their ‘nots’
High and Hanover — 2045
PEAR And on this day, this special day, we share our love *** (a wedding song.) I am alone and cross the bridge without a solid weight of confidence That I am one of the living souls. For those who knew my story, Any tales of derring-do That I may claim, Or seen the pounds I’ve lost or gained — Have mostly gone to their reward — — or punishment — — I suppose. Though to be Frank or Helen I’m not so sure about the bonfire. It seems that Hell on Earth is one strong claim.
‘April Rain’ by Mathilde Blind
‘Rainbow’ painting by Susan Alison — ‘April Rain’ by Mathilde Blind The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are fledged with nestling flowers; And in grey shaw and woodland bowers The cuckoo through the April rain Calls once again. The April sun, the April sun, Glints through the…
The Legacy Chair
PEAR My momma’s homemade handbag hangs Over the rounded arm, Threatening to fall to the carpet - And so stay relevant at heart. My pop’s handmade pipe still boasts a crusty bowl With a wisp of Cavendish black cherry, And rests unsmoked for decades In the pocket of the bag: Out of sight, but never out of mind. My other father, Pop-Pop Walt, To all the kids, smirks and smiles In the guise of a stuffed teddy Fashioned from a Phillies shirt He loved and wore -just yesterday- It seems. His bride, his darling, Crafted a crochet shawl That wraps around our Present Like a hug as warm As her biscotti and pizzelles.
PJR — 4–29–2021 Last night I didn’t wake up And it didn’t matter much but To your mother who, amazing, Changed your diaper mid-night, Just later, and not at midnight. Sometimes she fights the want To punch my stupid face. Let’s Face it; it’s hard to keep the Swaddle when your arms can’t Stop punching through the top. How can I tell you just how Overwhelming it is to feel your Thick but skinny legs between My fingertips? You smirk and I tear up. You’ve been tearing Up your bottles, 5 ounces, Little chunk. But you had gunk In your neck rolls again. And then, Your mom questioned her ability To. And I found myself fully in love With her, then you.
PEAR — 4–22–21 Sometimes it’s hard to say whether the markers, Tally up or down the distance between here And Where? The obelisk or legend plays its role in keeping track Of where we are in contrast to the next or last Stepping Stone. The rise beyond the rural road is cloistered, Barring Sun from peeking through a Solid arbor weave in happy shades of green. And likewise, where we’ve been — a lonely stretch Extending further than our memory can hear In every case refuses to declare