May 2015
Kenneth Pobo
kgpobo@widener.edu
kgpobo@widener.edu
I have a new book forthcoming from Blue Light Press called Bend Of Quiet. I teach creative writing and English at Widener University in Pennsylvania. One of the ways we endured this winter was watching the birds at our feeders. And, of course, listening to music.
Memorial Day Parade
Elmhurst, Illinois, the almost-city
in DuPage County. We took folding chairs
and walked from my grandparents’ house
four blocks to York Avenue.
Walgreen’s. Grant's Department Store.
The Music Mart. The parade,
more exciting to look forward to
than to see. Boy and girl scouts,
too many, a few bands, convertibles
with high school girls waving.
We didn’t talk about the dead
soldiers. My mom didn’t mention
her brother George, dead
in the Pacific, 1943. She carried his picture
in her purse until she died.
It used to be called Decoration Day
before TV showed us parades.
We marched to the fridge
and back. Elmhurst
stopped having it before I went
to college where I decorated my walls
with pictures of Tommy James
and T. Rex.
I picture
my grandmother
when the guy walked up
to the door
informing her
that her son George
had been killed
in the war,
her face,
which I barely remember,
George had wanted
to fight. Now
he was a message
a stranger
delivered,
years of grief
stretching out before her,
a road she must walk.
Yard Work
My shoulders ache. Lugging
the watering can, I get grouchy.
Yet what better way to converse
with the sprouting world,
a white sweet pea up
a quarter of an inch, poppies
that make pink promises
I know they will keep.
Even the sun wearing that gaudy
yellow robe says much.
I could’ve stayed in and watched
downies from the dining room window
or sat on the glider
and read the sports news. Instead,
I got the trowel, dug homes for plants,
the same spring breeze
that touches our trees
touching me.
Wandawoowoo Wants to be a Grebe
Years, a minnow school
slipping under a lily pad.
In high school, I wanted to be
a rock star. I couldn’t carry a tune
to the garbage. In college
I wanted to be Chinese
poet Li Bei
drowning to join
the moon’s reflection.
I craved Kerouac’s be mad to live
while feeding a dishwasher
at La Boheme restaurant. Now
I want to be a grebe. I’ll preen,
belly turned to the sun,
flight unsteady,
but I’ll get where I need to go,
alert, ready for
open water.
Elmhurst, Illinois, the almost-city
in DuPage County. We took folding chairs
and walked from my grandparents’ house
four blocks to York Avenue.
Walgreen’s. Grant's Department Store.
The Music Mart. The parade,
more exciting to look forward to
than to see. Boy and girl scouts,
too many, a few bands, convertibles
with high school girls waving.
We didn’t talk about the dead
soldiers. My mom didn’t mention
her brother George, dead
in the Pacific, 1943. She carried his picture
in her purse until she died.
It used to be called Decoration Day
before TV showed us parades.
We marched to the fridge
and back. Elmhurst
stopped having it before I went
to college where I decorated my walls
with pictures of Tommy James
and T. Rex.
I picture
my grandmother
when the guy walked up
to the door
informing her
that her son George
had been killed
in the war,
her face,
which I barely remember,
George had wanted
to fight. Now
he was a message
a stranger
delivered,
years of grief
stretching out before her,
a road she must walk.
Yard Work
My shoulders ache. Lugging
the watering can, I get grouchy.
Yet what better way to converse
with the sprouting world,
a white sweet pea up
a quarter of an inch, poppies
that make pink promises
I know they will keep.
Even the sun wearing that gaudy
yellow robe says much.
I could’ve stayed in and watched
downies from the dining room window
or sat on the glider
and read the sports news. Instead,
I got the trowel, dug homes for plants,
the same spring breeze
that touches our trees
touching me.
Wandawoowoo Wants to be a Grebe
Years, a minnow school
slipping under a lily pad.
In high school, I wanted to be
a rock star. I couldn’t carry a tune
to the garbage. In college
I wanted to be Chinese
poet Li Bei
drowning to join
the moon’s reflection.
I craved Kerouac’s be mad to live
while feeding a dishwasher
at La Boheme restaurant. Now
I want to be a grebe. I’ll preen,
belly turned to the sun,
flight unsteady,
but I’ll get where I need to go,
alert, ready for
open water.
©2015 Kenneth Pobo