Anticipation, by Steve Griffin

Poetry Niche

Anticipation

The vivid hues of flowers are muted by the dust. The radiant green of leaves now dully turned to rust.

The nightly coquetries of dews, Prove but a faithless lover’s ruse. The empurpled glory of jacaranda bloom, lie in dusty heaps beneath a gardener’s broom. The barbed-wire whine of the cicadas, disturb the heated air. Pelican bereft, the listless lake, looks skyward with a vacant stare. The hills adorned in somber gowns, Gaze down with pensive eyes.

Furrowed fields lie fallow like dusty, open thighs, beneath the knife-blue, sterile, unresponsive skies. All await with bated breath the groom with all his train, his attendant, cloudy lords and life producing rain.

Steve Griffin *****

Dressed in All Our Decades

from Poems for Flourishing

We’re dressed in all our decades, in rich brocades of life well-worn, and regularly mended. Vivid restoration patches— the hip, the shoulder, the knee-make us into living art! Our tatty brains save us from the trivial forgotten things, spare us for what matters. Delightfully scuffed by life’s great dance, we’re rubbed, at circle’s end, to the luster of original wonder. In the spacious present called aging, we rouse and wake, more alive than we have ever been.

Susa Silvermarie *****

Two crutches tied to the seat of his motorcycle. The old man, losing control, falls off. Unscathed, he tries to right himself. Too frail, he’s unable. A stranger, happens by, offers assistance.

That day, a short time later, falls off, again. Sitting on the roadway, he attempts once more, to stand. Struggles, but on each of several attempts, comes to the realization, he’s unable.

And so, he sits on the side of the road, and ponders, maybe, just maybe…. When is it time to say, “When? When is it enough?” When is it time to walk away?

The mental acuity to make split second decisions, when life or death may lie in the balance. One wrong choice after another, one too many? When is it time to say “When?”

Martin A. Bojan *****

I Am Learning

I am learning to love myself the way the shore loves the ocean and accepts waves that diminish it. I am learning to love my body the way b’s and d’s are shaped like the bellies of pregnant women because everything I write is birth. I am learning to love my name even after I learned it was not my name because my father had been adopted and was given his step-father’s name. I am learning to love the warm sun although I always consider I have a limited number of days. I am learning to love the night because the moon climbs over the city the way a reader waits for a story to build to a climax.