March Poems

Cigarettes, Frogs, and Summer Afternoons

John 1:Parliament

The March morning is hard and cold and still the frogs sing

On an amble up the street with hands tucked into a hastily-fetched coat pocket

I saw an empty pack of cigarettes tossed in the grass so green

Parliament

With nothing more to say, m’lord

Yes. Like that pack, like that litterbug, my ways are burnt out, too

all the way down to ashes and the unbearable lightness of despair that speaks of emptiness and makes me toss ‘em out the window so I’ll forget

But the wind won’t let me.

And the grass, like the morning, like the spring, like the Light, insists.

And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

Songs

It’s cold but it was warm and it will be again. Leo threatens to flick his tail this way and that, but, being etched in starlight, never does, and March tries to anticipate, but never can.

It was warm yesterday, and it rained, and all the frogs sang in the pond so I put a Debussy record on the turntable because I’m always putting an oar in or a guitar solo where it shouldn’t, and one of these days I’ll just

listen.

Tell Your Folks I Said Hey

Poetry is the closest transcription of my head, but it still feels odd putting it into the world. That’s my problem, not yours. Now it feels like an open mic, right? Well, this next one placed in a local contest. Didn’t go anywhere, but placed, and then it got printed in the Virginia Writers Club anthology, so that’s cool. (Thanks, Chuck and Betsy and everyone, it’s really a tickle!) It arrived last week. Man, I swear I posted the latest version, but…Uhh, lemme tune this guitar right quick… –Josh

Tell Your Folks I Said Hey

This traffic is the only thing that seems to

last forever

Today doesn’t, and especially yesterday, and the last three summers made a pointed

dash

to follow the wistful Sun

that Sun should turn into a lemon drop and stand still for once, but it never does.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could fly a tangerine balloon,

waft it on the tangy river breeze that’s thick enough to drink

Instead of always reaching to

hang up the phone?

I watch the side-view mirror, shining back a jungle

a heap of ideas and gardens on balconies and concrete above the asphalt and exhaust of an eternal Thursday rush hour

shimmering in some mirage

and almost see her

Somewhere on the 23^rd floor with a light in her eyes that would kindle me to say why yes I’d be delighted to wear matching Christmas sweaters with you and your folks back in Tegucigalpa

But I’ve never met a soul there, and the factory lied

Objects in mirror aren’t close at all

I reach for the button, and my hand hovers a moment

Tell your folks I said hey.

The signal turns green as

My faded shoe nudges the sensible gas pedal

Towards evening.