Warmth
What but ‘warmth’ speaks of ‘love’ to a child, to the aged,
Warmth all poems convey (that get launched from tome’s heart?)
I pray love gets displayed, found in stranger filled room
That you aren’t fishing for when it leaps (getting caught
In sun’s light), reflects heat in some heart-stopping way?
Must sex sing where there’s ‘love,’ what’s ‘insistence’ of hand
Or a foot reaching out though it knows you’re asleep?
A line’s rhyme in the distance implies rhyme upstaged
Or suggests deep connections? But readers have part
To play (ditches get jumped) if faint hearts dare presume
To think they grok my meaning, though that’s all that’s sought!
If a verse seems beyond your grasp, might you delay,
Think to savor the moment, take ‘lay of the land?’
Can a twist’s joy surprise if all content is cheap?
Grok the birth of this poem in a story mom shared
Of my dad’s father’s plight in a hospital bed,
The last days of his life (with his hands strapped to boards
To prevent the removal of tubes meant to serve.)
Hear his plea as he said his pet name for my mom,
“Sis, I’m feeling so cold, could you warm me a while?”
I still feel mom’s false guilt that she dared not assist.
It was not mom felt close, or that customs impaired,
The fault warmth that was missing in her heart instead,
My folks there more from duty! (Will held no rewards!
Dad’s gift only one dollar!) as Granddad’s last curve
To ‘First Son,’ knee not bent in a tragic sitcom,
For my dad did not hate his dad, served in ‘his style,’
Though true love that’s a servant will never insist!
I have friends who in aging aren’t courting new friends
It’s too much of a burden, say friends disappoint
And I have to confess there’s a stress when friends die
Or when they move away, and you can’t share your voice.
Watch more trails disappear when you see TIAs,
Love retreats in dementia where nothing connects
And to Love with clean diaper is good as it gets.
While it’s true our first thought of love isn’t Depends,
If an accident happened, would you not appoint
To be Pres. of your fan club, the one who’d not shy
From whatever was needful, if you had a choice?
Substitute at ‘home plate’ if your friend’s in a daze,
For all life must be lived in, we aren’t architects,
A warm harmony’s felt when folks share their vignettes!
Brian Johnston
28th of November in 2019
|