Poetry Month, Day 2

Hm, it took me even less time than I expected to drop off on the daily poems. I got to Day 2. In my defense: family visit.

Here's the second one:

The way heat persists
In the smell of these cedar
Blocks, about the size
Of a deck of cards,
Meant to keep moths away
Lights, in memoriam,
Gas fixtures in soft cages
And most of a moon.

That was a bad year
Despite the teapot full of gin
And a little tonic --
A cold summer full of strife.

Another year
He put juniper in his mouth
And asked: was that the meaning
Of my life?

The yellow moth wheels
Counterclockwise
The brown moths, whorled
Like wood grain, press
Themselves against the screen
Until it sags

If the taste changes,
If it turns sweet,
The answer is yes.

Poetry Month, Day Um

And today's effort. So only seven more poems to write in order to catch up.

Sonnet (ish) for B.

The ultraviolet gloom of bluebells
veiling the empty lots and medians
along the walk between our houses
reminds me (always) of cigarettes.

You know, when the poor man In Howard’s End
walks all night for beauty with nothing
but tobacco to feed on, and wins only
well-meaning sex and money, bad advice

and (spoilers) death. Much more difficult
to hand over beauty. Here, take these awful
bluebells, their ugly stalks and ghostly
always retreating indigo

Use them to colour in the peeling
lilac porch where we smoked and ate waffles
and promised ourselves to beauty
a long time ago, unless that was someone else

or unless I really meant sex and money.
Anyway, I don’t mean that now.