On the crosstown shuttle, just standing room
by the time she got on in the morning rush
and each day he rose from the seat he’d claimed.
Face flushed, she acquiesced.
It was a ritual dance
they practiced with natural grace.
Though the ride was rough, the waft of her perfume
was worth it. He needed no more thanks, nor did he get it
for she was as reticent as him.
A knight of bold deeds and chivalry for the duration
of this ride to the city, the shy smile made her his lady
as surely as a scarf bestowed.
Too soon the crosstown trip was done;
real life reclaimed the starring role.
They will meet again tomorrow,
same time, same perfume.
between being a militant pacifist
or a boring reactionary
I read the news and weep.
has little to do with it;
the dinner conversations
are always heated.
attentive to detail, there are nit pickers
in my history, necks stiff
from keeping their eye on the ball.
blinded by the light, we get down
but we seldom get it right
in this half-jungle tundra
and a fleeting emotion
that would bring a tear to your eye.
Atop the hill day makes its goodnight cry
in flame-red hues of myth and mystery,
Divine creation with a breathy sigh
burnishes earth in golden artistry.
Would I were that speck in majestic flight,
the wing’ed sparrow soaring high above
unfettered by melancholy twilight
nor taunted by the specters born thereof.
To feel the rush of wind beneath such wings,
to coast on currents warm with fading sun,
What makes the faith that lets the caged bird sing?
What wisdom lets a finished day be done?
Last vestiges of sun slip from my gaze
as melancholy turns to words of praise.
More exercise than exorcism,
was written in pieces…
like wisteria coming into bloom,
First, the cold ground,
then the sun;
a green shoot climbs toward the light.
Barely a spike,
it takes more than coincidence
to tender a blossom.
Even then, there’s the aphids
I no longer trust my vision,
but I trust my dream.
The Peaceful Pub came into existence in 2004. It began with five members and by the end of the year we counted our blessings for the twenty additional poets and writers who had joined together at the Pub’s fireside. We celebrated every new member and every new post. It was a great source of joy, camaraderie and some pretty awesome poetry and prose. In May of 2005, there was a ‘great disaster’ and suddenly all of our efforts were wiped out by a ‘massive server hack’.
Pubsters are a hardy bunch and the group became a family. They/we did not quit. In fact,
The Pub flourished in spite of the ever-changing platform. As years accumulated so did our membership. It sky rocketed; 2007-2011was our heyday. Even when Facebook began the death knell for forums, we maintained almost a thousand members, until this, our thirteenth year, when the decision was made that enough is enough.
Don’t forget, Pubsters are a family and they are not quitters. The result is a new blog. It is a multi-faceted blog authored by a group of loyal and talented Pubsters. I hope you will stop by to imbibe of the literary libations and to offer your support.
transplanted by love
from the suburbs
to the back hills
she barely remembers
nine to five
or the splendor
of a dinner party
where the cutlets were veal
slender as the poker
she uses to stoke the coal stove
a sapling has become an oak
frayed but regal
in her neatly patched dress
everything matches now
the burgundy sofa, the blue chair
dresses, slacks and shirts
all muted by the great equalizers
time and anthracite
that nefarious pair that leave nothing
untouched in these hills
no need for clocks
the expected whistle sounds
day shift is done at the mine
she touches a hand to her hair
smiles as her heart trips a glad song
he will be home soon.