September 2019
Bionote: I can't believe that I've been in Donna Hilbert's poetry workshop since it's inception. I originally wanted to write short stories and novels and thought, "What the heck. A poetic line can enhance my writing." Once I started, I was hooked. My poem "Carefree" was written when my grandson was seven, and now he's twenty. Our world situation sadly seems the same. Poetry gives us opportunity to think about our lives.
CAREFREE
The boys, first and second graders,
play in the pool.
The six-year-old has to stand
on tiptoes to keep the water
below his mouth.
They place Styrofoam noodles
between their legs and pretend
they’re riding horses.
Jordan floats on his back
dreaming up a game.
“Let’s play you can be anyone
you want to be in the world.”
Then he whispers in Tai’s ear.
They both laugh.
I overhear “Tony Hawk,”
“Cat Woman.”
Jordan says,
“Cat Woman isn’t real.”
Fate allowed them to be born
in mild, sunny California.
No need to alarm them
that the world beyond
their backyard is unstable.
The war in Iraq,
children just killed
in Afghanistan.
They don’t know the word,
hunger, as the children do
in Darfur or Malawi.
They row across the pool
on large tire floats,
splashing and laughing.
For now,
their juice and cookies
are set on the table
in the shade of the gazebo.
PRINCE AND PAUPER
My father couldn’t have known
when he was inspired
to compose a poem
for Jackie Kennedy
about little John-John’s last salute,
that his own three-year-old son,
would have something
in common with John-John.
They shared the same birthday
month, and year, November 1960.
Both of them died during l999
in their prime at thirty-nine,
but there the likeness ends.
Handsome John Kennedy, Jr. crashed
when he piloted his own private plane
near Martha’s Vineyard.
Three months later,
my brother overdosed
in a run-down Long Beach motel
without any green in his pockets.
Fate is so often unkind.
Yet, pictures remain of both of them
when they were happy school boys.
Their world was an open opportunity.
My brother’s hope to be a comedian;
John Kennedy, Jr., a noble gentleman.
HIS WEEKEND OF DARK AND LIGHT
Just suppose you are the cashier
who assumes this poorly dressed person
is homeless, so you chase him
from your restaurant
and refuse to let him use the restroom.
His feelings are hurt and he sits
beside the building sobbing.
Maybe, the next day you are the one
who thinks he is staring at your girlfriend.
You punch him in the nose,
and make him bleed.
He’s so shocked he calls the police,
but they judge him by his clothing,
ignore his complaint against the hitter,
and drive him to his sister’s house
He cries, “I don’t get any respect.”
On Sunday, you might be the drummer
playing on the boardwalk at Venice Beach.
When he walks by, and asks if he can have
a turn at your drums, you let him.
Afterwards his heavy frame feels lighter.
His mood has turned to sunshine.
He says, “This was one of my best days.”
Now the cashier, the jealous boyfriend,
and the drummer are not aware
he was so depressed that he died on Monday.
Be careful about what you put out
into the universe.
Choose light!
CAREFREE
The boys, first and second graders,
play in the pool.
The six-year-old has to stand
on tiptoes to keep the water
below his mouth.
They place Styrofoam noodles
between their legs and pretend
they’re riding horses.
Jordan floats on his back
dreaming up a game.
“Let’s play you can be anyone
you want to be in the world.”
Then he whispers in Tai’s ear.
They both laugh.
I overhear “Tony Hawk,”
“Cat Woman.”
Jordan says,
“Cat Woman isn’t real.”
Fate allowed them to be born
in mild, sunny California.
No need to alarm them
that the world beyond
their backyard is unstable.
The war in Iraq,
children just killed
in Afghanistan.
They don’t know the word,
hunger, as the children do
in Darfur or Malawi.
They row across the pool
on large tire floats,
splashing and laughing.
For now,
their juice and cookies
are set on the table
in the shade of the gazebo.
PRINCE AND PAUPER
My father couldn’t have known
when he was inspired
to compose a poem
for Jackie Kennedy
about little John-John’s last salute,
that his own three-year-old son,
would have something
in common with John-John.
They shared the same birthday
month, and year, November 1960.
Both of them died during l999
in their prime at thirty-nine,
but there the likeness ends.
Handsome John Kennedy, Jr. crashed
when he piloted his own private plane
near Martha’s Vineyard.
Three months later,
my brother overdosed
in a run-down Long Beach motel
without any green in his pockets.
Fate is so often unkind.
Yet, pictures remain of both of them
when they were happy school boys.
Their world was an open opportunity.
My brother’s hope to be a comedian;
John Kennedy, Jr., a noble gentleman.
HIS WEEKEND OF DARK AND LIGHT
Just suppose you are the cashier
who assumes this poorly dressed person
is homeless, so you chase him
from your restaurant
and refuse to let him use the restroom.
His feelings are hurt and he sits
beside the building sobbing.
Maybe, the next day you are the one
who thinks he is staring at your girlfriend.
You punch him in the nose,
and make him bleed.
He’s so shocked he calls the police,
but they judge him by his clothing,
ignore his complaint against the hitter,
and drive him to his sister’s house
He cries, “I don’t get any respect.”
On Sunday, you might be the drummer
playing on the boardwalk at Venice Beach.
When he walks by, and asks if he can have
a turn at your drums, you let him.
Afterwards his heavy frame feels lighter.
His mood has turned to sunshine.
He says, “This was one of my best days.”
Now the cashier, the jealous boyfriend,
and the drummer are not aware
he was so depressed that he died on Monday.
Be careful about what you put out
into the universe.
Choose light!
© 2019 Barbara Eknoian