USA

JBuck22874@aol.com 

Wilting Fuchsias

Your final birthday at ninety years.
"A nice round number" was all you said.
My tears slipped out like dirty pennies,
ketchup on a pillowcase.
I knew you were up to something here.
Something that I could not face.
Your fingers on the wrapping paper--
wilted, weathered fuchsia buds.
Fresh green parsley of your veins
fading into seaweed brine.
I studied maps of olding's game.
Wanting to plant a row of tulips
underneath your kitchen sill.
Thick dark clouds
like bean paste on tortilla flats.
Flipping through torn photographs,
grief's menu had its way with me.

You wouldn't let me leave that night.
Pretended that you'd hide my keys.
Company had disappeared.
Dishes stacked and rinsed and dried.
I drew you a long hot bath, 
fondled the whispers of whitened hair,
lit a candle near the tub.
Sat beside your frail frame--
aching to wash your glassy back
like bases of a chandelier
that lit up hallways of my life.
I fiddled some with sentiments,
brought you the top
of your birthday cake.
We stuck our knuckles in its butter,
knowing time was gaining ground.

Approval's Silly Paradigm

At 44, why must I 
bounce myself
on the lap of your eyes
like a shiny quarter hoping
to win some lottery?
Having the words 
is never enough.
Even when 
their hammocks swing
with lessons
of a richer path.
I thirst for proof
of intellect--
for corners of your
possible smile-- 
a brand new bulb
replaced at the risk
of electric shock.

So I pour you a beer, 
setting a poem
on countertops,
just meters away
from fingertips.
Squelching white
surrounding foam.
Heart fist wadded,
ink inside.
Loomer of gloom
with wildflowers
on my tongue.
Perfected sequence,
frilly silly paradigm
of need for
bookmarks on
a bible's page.
Incessantly searching
for ways to please
like children
handed single stilts.

Hard-bound Books

"Don't be scotch and save nice clothes 
for fancy parties months ahead."
You carried such a fragrant dogma,
lecture slipped between the cracks.
"Selfishness is practical but unrewarding--
reading Braille by candlelight."
You'd laugh like a wadded fist 
going through death's bolted door, 
dry your puppy with embroidered towels
when she ran through a patch 
of freshly planted geraniums.

"Never buy a paper-back
or pre-mixed eggnog in a store.
They're both some kind of travesty."
All these bookmarks loomed from 
living smoking incense off of art.
Your graciousness--a stucco wall
around the soil of matter cliques.
"Those who swim near ragged reefs
catch bigger fish because they dared."
What's left of you in plain gray urns
of poetry I sprinkle on my evening meal
like tarragon in tasteless soup.

© All Copyright,  Janet I. Buck.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.