In time and with regret
water deserts the brain.
You learn how to forget
with grace, to ignore pain,
to let each moment pass.
Here in this landlocked place
time alone flows. The glass
does not contain your face.
To a Stinkbug
The basil plants grow thinner now
where once a green and white
fragrant lace curtain filtered out
stray looks and excess light.
They barely live, no thanks to you
and your dead-leaf disguise,
your vagrant gait along the stalk,
your pseudo-bloodshot eyes.
A rusting, rotting Sherman tank
is what you most evoke,
although your ammunition brings
no fiery blast, no smoke.
Your breed's passive-aggressive stance
took eons to perfect.
(But I'm not sure what maimed these plants:
your need, or my neglect.)
A BABY BOOMER REPORTS BACK
Dear Parents: Yes, kids were a good idea.
Your optimism wasn't a mistake.
You were the best, and yes, I'm taking care
of what you gave me -- mostly while awake,
but sleeping, too. I rummage for pain's cause
rather than popping pills. I avoid trouble,
recycle, eat right, protest crazy wars
both hot and cold. (We still could turn to rubble.)
What else? Oh yes, that business about talent--
you said it was a gift from (fill the blank)
and must be used for good. This is a constant
challenge. They wouldn't take it at the bank.
These originally appeared in Trinacria -- by author's permission