Erato's Olio: Poems for NaPoWriMo 2022 - 2. April 9 - April 16

April 9

 

 

 

Cheerful June

wears a bright green tee shirt

speckled with garden dirt and grass stains,

and clutches peonies and rocket in one hand,

humming an old tune from way back when,

but keeping an eye out

for rainstorms.

 

 

Shy July

turns her face from autumn,

unable to face the light’s retreat,

but flushed and heated, denies all the evidence

the burgeoning garden can provide,

believing only the

cicadas.

 

 

August lies

languid under the sun,

long leggéd, lean muscled and golden,

taking every possible moment to show off

the plentiful bounty he produced,

confirming he fulfilled

his promise.

 

 

 

 

April 10

 

 

 

The wind plays tunes among the trees,

sonatas sound on every breeze

and hint of some sweet, simple songs

to catch a snatch of whispered glees.

 

 

Away from all the teeming throngs,

from sirens screeching, clanging gongs,

I hear the zephyr’s crooning still

as if to right a million wrongs.

 

 

The breath of earth moves o’er the hill,

it hums and wanders where it will,

to play a snaredrum in the canes

or serenade the daffodil.

 

 

Its music tells of far-off plains,

beyond the darkling storms and rains

where in the sunlit summer leas

might tarry lovers and their swains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 11

 

 

 

Real poets

write in spite of their fears,

with inner fires fuelling their passion

and so exposed to the fierce winds of circumstance

that words burn wild across the dry plains

consuming everything

in their path.

 

 

Real teachers

inspire fascination,

lighting lamps which burn bright as beacons,

like blazing signals on a dark and misty coast

where no chart can foretell the channel

guiding the explorer

to harbor.

 

 

Real men live

unafraid of loving,

not hiding their faces from the hearth

where hardwood logs laid long ago become hot coals

to warm the latter grey, frost rimed years

with affection that lasts

forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 12

 

 

 

Just because

my heart is giving out

and these old bones can no longer dance

does not mean I am incapable of loving;

grey hair hardly precludes our friendship,

nor arthritis deny

an embrace.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

My doctor says my failing heart will stop

someday when I expect it least,

and then I guess my classes will be stunned

to learn their homework may have ceased.

Perhaps midway through logarithms’ trudge

or proofs in trig that most despise

will I sit down beside the marker board

one final time, but not to rise.

 

 

Old teachers lose their faculties, they say

but I’ve not found that to be true,

for I continue to explore new paths

accompanied by friends like you.

Yet age is not a problem I can solve,

no matter how I work it out,

unlike a volume found by integrals,

there always seems some room for doubt.

 

 

 

 

April 13

 

 

 

Love’s headache

won’t respond to aspirin,

nor to megadoses of caffeine,

but possibly the sufferer may find relief

from a friend’s soft touch to the temple

with the shades drawn and the

lights turned down.

 

 

Love limps in

on sore, unhappy feet,

which walked side by side for many miles

with him in search of the perfect bathroom curtain

to match that print, purchased on a whim

while touring Mexico

together.

 

 

Love makes noise

in a dark deep forest

which has resisted every attempt

to tame and civilize its green groves and mossy glades,

where small, unnamed, cautious creatures creep

listening all alert

for yearning.

 

 

 

 

April 14

 

 

 

Golden mane

glowing under the warm sun,

skin glistening with a job well done,

work hardened muscles rippling under taut lean flanks

raise a salute in the observer;

care naught for the rider -

see the horse!

 

 

 

 

April 15

 

 

 

Come, let’s not fuss

about a quarter or a dime,

or yet discuss

how neither one of us made time

for one another in our prime.

 

 

Such talk’s a crime

when we all know our days are few

and tempers climb

when willful one can misconstrue

those words which we will later rue.

 

 

Our debt’s past due

and payable upon demand

to those who knew

how doubtful was our golden band

yet nonetheless stood close at hand.

 

 

Or we can stand

together still, and coupled thus

upon the sand

against the storms that may concuss,

until the tide must come for us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 16

 

 

 

I wonder if a heart made out of stone

is harder than one fashioned from the ice,

for neither one seems likely to be nice

as centuries of history have shown.

In chemistry and physics they have known

from work done on laboratory mice

that these materials don’t ever splice

to men possessing feeling, flesh and bone.

Yet what are we to say of modern men

with blood that flows and living hearts that beat

who order up destruction with a pen,

a ruinous catastrophe complete?

What alchemy transformed them, born again,

to icons of brutality concrete?