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