We planted this mimosa
when I turned 50.
Mom always said,
“every man should plant a tree
and raise a son.”
I’ve planted many trees
and this one started out
just right
the mantis in the branches
saying a benediction
But life has its own way
of moving forward
that sturdy little tree
seemed dead in spring
our hopes dashed
until new growth sprang up
from still lively roots
growing its own way
around and past the dead
With luck
I’ll play buddha to this banyan
beneath the birds
an old man nodding in its filtered shade
a book of poetry in my lap
a cold cuppa coffee by my side mjh
He checked his pocket for change and pulled out a poem. To his credit, he valued words more than money. The cashier smiled and asked, Do you want a receipt? Yes, please. She scribbled a response.
In this economy, words are coins but it’s how you arrange them that adds value, enriching poets and making editors investment counselors.
4/5/13
– – – – – [written for Poem in Your Pocket Day, 4/18/2013]
When I come in from the garage
the dog’s look asks,
“Where is she?”
Gone, I say, she’s gone.
He stands at the door
head tilted, he listens
for you.
I open the door
and he walks around the car
pausing to look up into the
windows on both sides.
“Where is she?”
All night he sits by the window
rising up at any sound
he looks and waits
for your return.
And I am there beside him
sharing his hope
for your return.
Where is she? mjh
The whispering trees recite rhymes
Written by rain.
Poems rustle, flutter to the gutter,
Clutter up the street.
Ankle-deep in poetry,
I reach for a rake.
Off a train of thought, signs point up to higher functions, down to baser instincts. A mindpost warns: synaptic lapse ahead.
Now, I’m treading a familiar path in the gray. All around me light flashes the path is slick and wet soft walls rise a ditch become a canyon this place is old those voices are echoes.
It may be
we’re not born with souls
but receive them slowly
one drop at a time
from our parents,
siblings,
friends & lovers.
Each lending a drop
to our vessels.
And the kindness of
strangers
is like rain.
Thus, we live long enough
that our cups runneth over. mjh
4am 4/6/12
"It does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people's minds." — Sam Adams