New poem 2/27/12

 I  can't remember whether I heard Donald Hall or Robert Bly say that a title to a poem is the equivalent of the poet jabbing the reader in the ribs with an elbow, saying: Do you get it? Do you get it? Whether Hall or Bly, here's a poem with no title.

I've come to help you, she said,

The wind is strong and it might

Blow you over. I don't want you to fall.

Two others called out:

She's taking care of you;

You're a lucky guy today.

She held out her elbow for

Him to take. They left

The building, headed for his car.

Watch your step, this wind

Is fierce. He tightened his hold

On her arm. Thanks, he said.

The southern sky was robin's egg blue;

Black clouds were forming to the north.

Here we are, she said, opening the car door.

He slid safely into the driver's seat,

Clicked the belt, and then

He inserted the ignition key.

Poem 2/27/12

I've come to help you, she said,

The wind is strong and it might

Blow you over. I don't want you to fall.

Two others called out:

She's sure taking care of you;

You're a lucky brother.

She held out her elbow for

Him to take. They left

The building, headed for his car.

Watch your step, this wind

Is fierce. He tightened his hold

On her arm. Thanks, he said.

The southern sky was robin's egg blue;

Black clouds were forming to the north.

Here we are, she said, opening the car door.

He slid safely into the driver's seat,

Clicked the belt, and then

He inserted his ignition key.

Standing in the Snow

      Standing in the snow

Nothing read on a screen can

Be considered anything like

A book, he said with a tenacious

Grip on certainty. A book is

A book is a book; it has pages

And it has a spine, he grumbled.

Books use words, of course,

Not pixels. To hold a book,

He said, just feels good.

Why do you suppose people

Created screens? I asked.

He was wearing sandals

Standing in the snow at

Hadrian's Wall, the pride

Of Rome and the civilized

World. He looked at me with

Imperious eyes and grunted:

They didn't do it for me.

Family Circle

At a round rest stop table

The usual can of pork

And beans, plain, nothing added

To make them seem more

Than they were, was the only side.

The mother prepared simple

Bologna sandwiches, neat,

With no mayo or lettuce,

And the ordinary meal

Became a summer picnic:

It was an unbroken circle,

Singing songs of childhood.

They were like westward

Pioneers who stopped

Someplace near here decades sooner

To locate themselves

In a family way.