Be on the lookout, keep your vision keen.
A certain dragonfly will circle around
This Spring. Without doubt, he wants to be seen
And heard.—“Love abounds in heaven’s surround.
Be on the lookout sweetest, treasured dear heart.
Certainly, you know we’re not really apart.
And for eternity our love will astound.”
A state of mind was Harry’s Place, a kind
Of bar, for sure, where patrons weren’t unkind,
A place where Benny held court for his people,
A NOLA church of kinship minus the steeple,
Where all could be themselves mostly unconfined.
Nostalgia, back in the day, wants us to pine
The regulars and antics brought to mind,
Where clearly points our neglected compass needle
To this state of mind,
Leased by Suzie, Duffy, and Moose intertwined
With others, who’d ventured to Benny’s hoping to find
The Vieux Carre’s ambience open, so gleeful
To be part of so much fun, indeed quite peaceful,
Their molecules seamlessly realigned
By this beautiful state of mind.
A dragonfly came visiting today;
He landed close by, decided to stay.
Blue chest, goggle eyes black, a gaze so keen,
“My poorly-timed death, nothing contravened!”
Silliness now from an anguish-addled brain,
“Joe, is that you?” To believe, I am most fain!
Speak of this? Surely not! My friends would scoff.
Translucent wings, stick-man stilts, you took off!
With teary eyes, I tried to slip away,
But around you curved, you are here to stay!
Sometimes I feel there’s nothing left to do
But die; depressing a thought as this may be
But true, until a youngster gives a clue
That they need help, more or less urgently.
This help often displays the dollar sign,
Nonetheless, at times, some talk may suffice
Against a problem new to them, a grind
To brave and overcome, first try, not twice.
So, I search within my depressing blues
To find a ray of light they can infuse,
Grudgingly finding within this further quest
A light for me in need of my behest.
This dreaded date is coming, close at hand
This day, sorrier than the previous
Three hundred sixty-four? Prometheus
Was no worse off. Twitching my wedding band
Angry, for this turn in life was not planned.
Outrage, for me he was a Theseus!
His death, an abuse, awful, most hideous,
Has thrown me stranded, roaming in a wasteland!
Through agitating sadness and enmity,
Daily I’ll persist to find some small joys.
I rewrote my fragile cherished vow,
“Until death do us part,” to “Eternity.”
A vision of reconnecting returns a poise
To my soul, as I kneel to pray, my head to bow.
(For Joe’s Wife, Ginger)
My Joe has died; no longer wife but widow
To bear being bereft, yet poorly prepared
For this posture. Other past wives say, “ditto,”
When our weekly group meets, sobbing in pillows,
Searching for salve to soothe the wounds we bear.
Our husbands have died, no longer wives but widows.
“Book clubs, tennis days still occur you kiddos,”
Says our leader to avoid us being ensnared
In a crippled posture; agreement, we all say, “ditto.”
At home, I stand by his favorite chair, shadowed
By drapes, where we’d discuss worries and cares.
My hero has died; no longer wife but widow
Who now decides, without enough info,
Things he’d settle without rising from his chair.
This posture not suited for romping and frisking in meadows
Which we did for years with our shirts in billows
Guiding, leading us around nary a care.
Our light-hearted postures I wish I could ditto,
But Joe has died; forever, I’m a widow.
Ice, within sturdy blue walls
Lest his heart does crumble.
To avoid her side-step shifts,
Don’t carry the ball nor fumble.
To the Herald Tribune Media Group
Never than now more full of odious poop,
A five dollar fee for a paper statement
Leaves me awash with stupefied amazement.
Nowadays I do have perturbing gas,
So take your fee and STICK IT UP YOUR ASS!!!
Recognizing his level of triteness,
Even writing it down quite trite,
Defogged small vestiges of brightness,
Which did at last increase his sight.
His molecules rearranged by a woman,
He’d babbled along and became her footman.
Now breaking the ruse with all his might,
He emerged undeniably less trite.
A couple of words from her,
Rushed even, on the run,
Billow my sails astir,
And doldrums I can shun.
gkpoetry 