Saturday, October 8, 2016

AT LONG LAST #56, FRONT ROW SEATS #57 #58 Purple Socks All Winter

ANOTHER NEW BEGINNING
70 Poems for 70 Days 
 is a collection of poetry I wrote as a birthday present to myself and gifted in book format to 70 of my friends and family members. Over a period of 70 Sundays, I am submitting the poems in the order of composition, along with a short comment about the poem’s style or theme,
often including a complementary photograph.

With linked poetry, a form of Japanese Renshi poetry,
the last lines of one poem are used to form the title of the next poem,
then the next poem shifts to a different topic.

I hope you find a few entries that bring a smile to your face or a long buried memory to the surface of your consciousness. Poetry is like that, whether you are the reader or the author.
 
56
At Long Last
 
 
 
Waiting, when there is
nothing to anticipate
every conversation leads
to war 

Socks the wrong color,
heat set too high, too low
too much garlic, not enough salt,
and the gas tank’s dry, again. 

At very long last,
free to be the real me
purple socks all winter,
floor fan after March 

Gone the need to capitulate,
with no control on topics
ranged from condiments
to front row seats.
  

Of course, this is written “tongue-in-cheek.” If only all conflict confined itself to difference of opinion in sock color and choice of condiments! Then again, any mystery writer worth their salt, and pepper, could execute a story that involved death by choking on a gold-toed stocking or asphyxiation by chili powder.

*****     *****     *****
 
 
While some of the poems in this collection were written with a bit of humor, others focus on more serious, and often, quite emotional topics. The topic of the following poem falls into the latter category. These thoughts did not come easily and were not written with a light heart.

57
Front Row Seats

 

Back yard
Saturday night
Full moon rising
Open to the force, electric
In its delight. 

Twirling dancers
Shining stage
Violin concerto
Emotions swell, the pleasure
Uncontained. 

Front row
Thursday morning,
Silence trickles down
Incomprehensible, to view
The tiny casket.

*****     *****     *****
 
 

58
 

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