25 March 2008

poem: Mary Bixby Brewster

Mary Bixby Brewster

This lady lived on the outskirts of town
    in a small, crowded house, slightly tumble-down.
She was tall and fair, always sat up straight,
    hiked or swam for miles, watched the food she ate.
She'd ride up the highway, biking alone
    in a gingham dress, twenty miles from home.
She had power in her able, but straightlaced, mind
    trained to the Bible, on a few tracks blind.
She raised up a quartet of college-bound sons,
    the oldest a beacon to the younger ones.
Yet I think she loved most her two beautiful girls,
    headstrong and destined for far away worlds.
Late in her life in a hideous slaughter,
    she lost forever her eldest daughter,
For years she would write to the babies and father
    who kept her shut out -- just some weird old bother!

After thirty-five years, her true love died,
    and with him went part of her, deep down inside.
But she met and remarried a tolerant chap
    and they set about running the second lap.
She grew somewhat bent for reasons unknown,
    as if yogurt and prayer held no sway over bone.
Then, joy beyond hope! -- her grandson, grown up,
    brought his sister to bond with this lady of love.
And her faith gave her strength. She was steadfast ... until
    one day she was gone ... don't we miss her still?

--  Leslie G. Harper
   March 24,2008

*  Mary Bixby Brewster Harden Napolski, a fine lady and role model from my original hometown in Florida whom I can never forget.


Mary Bixby Brewster Harden Napolski's beautiful page by granddaughter Rachel Harden

21 February 2008

poem: Mother Nature's Got a Thermo-Sprayed Bob

Mother Nature's Got a Thermo-Sprayed Bob

Our Earth looks tame to the eyes above her;
Our jetstreams waltz to a languid tune.
We're blue as Neptune, but heavier, wetter;
With seas that yearn for our burnt toast Moon,
We're not like Venus who's steeped in sulfur,
Nor Mars nor Mercury bleak as noon.

Across our sky is a lace-white maze
Pooped out by queues of passing jets.
Here on Fourteenth Street, shirtsleeve workers
Erupt outdoors to light cigarettes
They'll cough out their lungs to the souped up haze
That smothers the Sun before it sets.

With reddened mouth, with bleached white grin,
Meteora conjures intense precip,
But her bob never stirs while her arms describe
A clipper's blast or derecho's rip.
"The blossoming pears will be snowed in --
Now let's watch a scary tornado clip!"

Her front shoves past and the ozone drops;
From the murk come profiles of vale and bluff.
Forget the smoke from our bygone past!
We've dealt pollution a swift rebuff.
Here's to clearcuts! to hybridized crops!
To Stickstoff! Sauer- und Kohlenstoff!

Ah, Meteora, we've lost our shoon!
But you're lookin' swell -- you got no regrets!
If deserts are going to come claim us soon,
Then a fireman conducted the Boston Pops!
Our midden persists though our lust forgets;
It'll be there to read in the rock outcrops.

And, Mami! We're bound to wreck this ship:
I don't think our atmosphere's vast enough!

          -- Leslie G. Harper
              February 19, 2008

poem: Eight Ounce Gorilla

Eight Ounce Gorilla


(It's a New Cyber Jungle Out There)

 

We've gone wireless and beyond!

Meet the new Vista laptop ...

Ride your new Vista laptop

into cyberspace this evening.


Leave radio behind ...

Byebye, broadcast network!

C'mon, WiFi net work

right through steel contruction!


Grab a remote, whichever remote;

Start channel surfing

Or internet surfing.

Life's no more contact sport!


Skip the boring telly!

Spend the night at YouTube.

Stuff your eyes on YouTube --

see faces quite deceiving.


Play Gameboy or Nintendo.

The games will lose their lustre,

Then you'll become the luster

for the latest new releases.


Juice up your red-rimmed eyes

to speeds too fast for men --

scenes per second: ten?

Drum machines keep time.


But wait!...

The average senior citizen's

hearing aid thrrrrums

to the endless pounding drums.

Plain old life's got no more lives.


Our AD, HD world

surrenders its final sassparilla

to an eight ounce gorilla,

that's not for everyone.


-- Leslie G. Harper

December 19, 2007

Who Needs a Different Drummer? Just Run in Rhyme

This may not make sense to you ... I'm going to post my new poems here rather than wait to publish them in Volume 2. You can find older poems at http://www.lheonline.com/Poetry1.html

Leslie