breakfast
this morning in the kitchen
I reached across to you
to enjoy the warmth
of your touch
oh the reveling in my heart
as I did hear your words
a poem of devotion to me
then came my plan
to serve your favorite meal
out on the deck
the place I made for you
we did spend happy hours
among your many plants
I see you feel you
as I drink my morning coffee
alone
JRS
8/18/2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
tea and cake
tea and cake
while I never acquired a taste for honey
wednesday tea with Megan
was always the week’s high point
her sweet cakes sometimes a little dry
made smother by the sparkle of her eyes
joy in her voice
many years have past
now I make my tea with sugar
when waiting for water to boil
I’m found longing for that romance
which was always out of reach
JRS
8/14/2009
while I never acquired a taste for honey
wednesday tea with Megan
was always the week’s high point
her sweet cakes sometimes a little dry
made smother by the sparkle of her eyes
joy in her voice
many years have past
now I make my tea with sugar
when waiting for water to boil
I’m found longing for that romance
which was always out of reach
JRS
8/14/2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
yesterday's image
washday
the new washer and dryer
sit across the room from my workbench
as the clean garments fall past the globe-like window
images come like pictures on an old tv screen
Anne Marie and me
in the laundromat up near 25th street
she folding and me rolling
puffs of smoke and dreams float in and around our heads
could it have been that all those days were sunny days
wonderful memories triggered by the sight suds and the smell of bleach
filled with comfort taking me back to old joys flashes of faces once seen daily
visions so bright I must have made them up
JRS
8/2/2009
time to cut the grass
all morning delaying
the cutting of the grass
not that the doing of it is hard
they have taken most of the work out of it
the obstruction for me is
just getting started
it is much easier to navigate the net
for pictures of girls with little or no clothing
something that I find more pleasant than
the work made for me by the mice
yes they made a mess in my toolbox
and last winter they broke into the shed
still trying to get all the little shells
out of my lawnmower
I keep looking away from the task
now that I have started this verse
I have one more thing to put off
JRS
8/3/2009
yesterday‘s image
there was a time when we knew his identity
one who was in possession of power
beloved to many a picture of life’s joys
now he seems to have no scene of himself
eyes wide open but the fire is gone
the hard strait line once cut in stone
now smudged like charcoal
followed him in and out of smoky rooms
we wanted to be him
not watch his crumbling
these images that weave him into our memory
could not be myth
nor dream for we know his identity
so why do we not see him in our glass
JRS
8/4/2009
the new washer and dryer
sit across the room from my workbench
as the clean garments fall past the globe-like window
images come like pictures on an old tv screen
Anne Marie and me
in the laundromat up near 25th street
she folding and me rolling
puffs of smoke and dreams float in and around our heads
could it have been that all those days were sunny days
wonderful memories triggered by the sight suds and the smell of bleach
filled with comfort taking me back to old joys flashes of faces once seen daily
visions so bright I must have made them up
JRS
8/2/2009
time to cut the grass
all morning delaying
the cutting of the grass
not that the doing of it is hard
they have taken most of the work out of it
the obstruction for me is
just getting started
it is much easier to navigate the net
for pictures of girls with little or no clothing
something that I find more pleasant than
the work made for me by the mice
yes they made a mess in my toolbox
and last winter they broke into the shed
still trying to get all the little shells
out of my lawnmower
I keep looking away from the task
now that I have started this verse
I have one more thing to put off
JRS
8/3/2009
yesterday‘s image
there was a time when we knew his identity
one who was in possession of power
beloved to many a picture of life’s joys
now he seems to have no scene of himself
eyes wide open but the fire is gone
the hard strait line once cut in stone
now smudged like charcoal
followed him in and out of smoky rooms
we wanted to be him
not watch his crumbling
these images that weave him into our memory
could not be myth
nor dream for we know his identity
so why do we not see him in our glass
JRS
8/4/2009
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