gkpoetry

I am bleached white, squeeze dried, panels of pulp
Coiled round a cardboard tube, hollowed and glued.
My skin dimples with shapes and dots to gulp,
Absorb, and whisk away wet spots of food.
Repeated doodles color speckled squares,
Much more effective when unrolled in pairs.
I sit for hours wholly undisturbed,
But after school there comes a thundering herd!

At last to be unrolled and put to use!
They spill their drinks, scatter their crumbs, and smear
Jam all over the place without excuse,
Save that they’re kids on the loose! Mama, no fear,
Enters and smiles. Anger can hurt she knows
And ruin special memories of those
Enchanting scenes, when just a couple squares
Erase the goo and glop nary a care.

Supper time, Mama speaks her vexing peeve,
“Don’t wash your hands at the sink, you’re in the way!”
Congested, junior coughs against his sleeve,
Big globs of yellow mucus on their way.
Mascara, make-up sister might remove,
And pasta boils over into the grooves.
The puppy whines acutely ill at ease,
Would someone put the dog out? Quickly Please!

At end of day I’m every bit unwound,
Though I wish I could stay longer than this.
During the raucous kitchen time I’ve found
A household group which I will sorely miss.
I end a cardboard tube, hollowed and glued,
Waste-can ready to be replaced anew.
Another like me shall come along soon
To wipe away messes dotting this room.

The sand is hot and gritty as they trudge
Along, full stretching their calves and Achilles,
Until she finds the spot for them to lodge.
A tattered spread stakes out their boundaries,
The picnic things now organized with ease.
Father hefts their cooler out of the way,
While mother sorts the beach gear for the day.

The children grab plastic buckets and shovels
For castles and forts beyond the reach of waves.
They dance and dig and pack wet sand by handfuls
Until the walls and moats are firmly paved.
They work away to build a secret cave,
Possessing nary a care or other concern
Except to save the Queen any bad turn.

His cell phone rings, “The office, I need to answer!”
With a chagrin, he flips open the phone
And starts to talk. Off the spread he saunters
Across the sand a ways to be alone,
Where he can freely chat adjusting his tone.
She wonders, “Really, the office, his day off?”
She jettisons the thought not wishing to scoff!

She watches the children race back to their square,
“Mom, we’re thirsty, may we have a drink, Please?”
“Of course, first brush the sand out of your hair!”
With motherly flair and enjoying the breeze
She sticks the straws in cartons of juice with ease.
Loud slurps and gulps followed by noonday snacks.
He swirls the sand continuing to chat.

To water’s edge they run to check out how
Their castle wall is holding. Stretching to clear
The crumbs and snacks, she sees a femme fatale
Wading nearby! Aware of her allure,
She wonders if his stare she will procure.
The coming scene, perhaps we can predict it,
Yet ordinary humans must depict it.

As it happens, she walks across the sand
A bit beyond the castle moats and fortress
To wade in water near this Venus grand.
Although his call had eased some telling stress,
Disquieted he is by carelessness.
His kids, a ways off, shaping their creation,
His wife, bound for a different destination.

A barbecue for friends, some hers some his
From work and school, took place that sunny day
In their suburban yard. Funny was this
In an odd sort of way, it was early May,
And Hope’s blossoms did seem well underway.

He smiled and chatted with friends, old and new,
While back in the shade, she tended the barbecue.

She flipped the burgers and filled the buns. Not quite
Hectic, she stole a knowing, on edge glance
Toward her friend. Her husband, cheery and bright,
Returning for seconds disturbed her trance.

Nickels jingled as she spun around to face
Beleaguered riders parked along the aisle.
Propping school books against her sturdy waist,
She swayed in sync, the lurches quick, and smiled.
Ahead she saw her handsome teenage friend
Seated, trying to read as the streetcar jerked.
Losing focus before equation’s end
He noticed her, and with aplomb he perked
Up and offered his place for her to sit.
A bouncing white blouse and swirling school skirt,
A pirouette, no demurral not a bit
Into the seat she twirled appearing a flirt.
Coming to rest, she placed her books on her lap.
Prescient, she reached for his with disarming tact.

About five creeps, who mooned him and his girl
When they were parked on shadow lane and taunted
The two disheveled dressing in a swirl,
He can’t unring the bell of fear they flaunted.

The woman, who berated him and shared
Her stinging blues, seemed angrily off course.
He really tries to not look back to where
Her snapshot judgment froze in place remorse.

A teacher might have raised his grade a notch
But sticking to the rules did not. Implored
To no avail he did this vital crutch
And ate his groveling sadly ignored.

His skillful “friend” aloof, who’d always kept
His distance, him he viewed as reticent
And not a person haughtiness adept.
Misjudged again, that “friendship” came and went.

He doesn’t march around with pompous grin
Nor quite forget his distant gaffes or blots.
No shrines for him, imagines thicker skin
To look at past miscues and say, “So What!”

Yet, as he drives the car around and through
His yard sale of regrets, he pays the toll
Of knowing mettle never did imbue
His soul. For that, he’d always drawn the dole.

(See “A Finished Man” by Richard Wilbur)

Lousy coffee, lukewarm in Styrofoam,
Hopper’s light slanting down an outside wall,
Synapse-suppressed beneath fluorescent beams
Clientele stir and wait the manager’s call,
“Your car is ready, expensive? not too!”
Not savvy, they can only hope it’s true.

Across the floor she marches to and fro,
Clacking her heels, clickety clackety, just so.

Sitting in chairs, moonstruck men stare serene
At highlighted tresses, which knowingly bounce
Farrah-pretty, and easy fit-tight jeans.
Muzak doldrums mingled with glare-surround
Encase a greyed-out, beiged-out plastic scene.

Across the floor she marches to and fro,
Clacking her heels, clickety clackety, just so.

Mister Whitecollar’s stern demeanor trails
Along an aisle, freezing the air in his wake.
Crisp and white, his shirt billows as he sails
Back and forth, not pell-mell, yet what to make
Of duplicate jaunts to here, to near, to here,
While service techs explain the hacks and clacks
To elder ashen folks of yesteryear
Worried restless about their cadillacs.

And across the floor she marches to and fro
Clacking her heels, clickety clackety, just so.

Across the sea my friend was slowly dying.
Around and through a cancer fed and spread.
I knew that soon the –ing would change to –ed.

Not cured, though he had for months been trying,
We knew the time had come to reminisce
About the fun events which made our list.

A crowning glow low moods were clearly craving.
A looming specter dark and serious,
His coming death remained imperious.

And now indeed the –ing has changed to –ed.
My lovely Irish Skerries friend is dead.

Old high school friends of fifty years or more
Do congregate each year at warm spring shores
To watch their team, to talk baseball, perhaps
To recollect a youth already lapsed.

The fleeting days of a week go quickly by,
An anecdotal tear might gleam in their eyes.
They’re glad to be at inning seven’s stretch,
Though glory is no longer theirs to catch.

Yet hope springs at the stadium again,
From the young family of their late friend.
With smiles and cheers these seniors feel renewed,
This constant game inspires old fans anew.