The oaks in our front yard, like a pair of randy young studs, fling about their flirtations at every hussy passing breeze. This is how they procreate I understand, I understand… but, Lord God Almighty why does everything, including my nose and truck, have to be coated with their joy?
The sun climbed a tall pine, as it does on cloudless days. At the top, it leaped and flew, like a blazing hawk honed in on a prey. Its fiery feet grabbed the horizon, then slipped away in the dark of night.
The school buss's brakes squeal at 6:50 a.m., Monday through Friday. We have an alarm clock, and the television is set to a timer that goes off ten minutes before. I guess if the power gets knocked out grinding metal on metal will replace the obnoxious beep, beep, beep; rain, thunder and trash can lids performing gymnastic routines up and down the street will suffice for the morning weather report.
I looked at my hands to see if any words were loitering about. None lounging in the wrinkles pitching pennies to scars and scratches, bungee jumping from bent knuckles, nor poised off the nails of fingers ready to type. I took a toothpick and ran through the life lines, nothing but remnants of some melted M & M’s. This poem was written courtesy of the keyboard, I was able to tap-tap-tap it for a generous loan.
The shadow of the deck chair swayed to strumming strings of brass wound notes floating on shallow pools of filtered sun. Neither sharp, nor flat, nor stuttered staccato, just soft, and pure, and steely sweet.
Yesterday, on my daily walk, a boy of about four or five looked up at me and said, “hey! old man!” Of course it immediately brought my blue-sky-wandering thoughts to the top of his lightning-striped, helmeted head.
I kept going rummaging through my repertoire of appropriate replies for delicate ears, and the best I could find— after clipping off the gray-haired adjectives, was, “hey! young boy!”
Feeling like I’d offered equal tit for tat I started searching through the trees for that patch of cloudless reverie I left parked under the pale eye of a daytime moon.
My Nikes perked up their pace for several steps, when, like an arrow shot dead center of my back, I heard, “I’m not young, I can ride a bicycle!” No need to stop, turn, and hip shoot a retort, I knew he was right, I’ve been riding for years.
2009! 57 years ago in April I was a 2# squealing baby boy. Got a wonderful tan in an incubator. Made friends with plastic tubing, needles and tape. All of which I have zero recollection. I've been well watered and fertilized over the years, and grown quite ripe. Plastic tubing, needles and tape are catalysts for flashbacks without the buzz. Enjoy!