Tag Archives: Spring

April Morning

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This morning in the dark
The rain fell steadily
Yet a male robin sang and sang
As if he knows that every morning
Will be as joyous as today’s
From now ‘til autumn

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Roll into the Night – Poem 7 of 30 for National Poetry Month

Sponge

They’re sayin’
Soon it’ll be seventy degrees

When it is
I’m gunna put on faded Levi’s
And a T-shirt

A white one like Fonzie’s
No, like Springsteen’s
Yeah

I’m gunna back out a car
An old one
With squared corners
Chrome bumpers
And round headlights

I’ll back it out
And then back it in
Park it right there on the driveway

I’ll walk over to the brick house
To the metal spindle with the garden hose
I’ll pull it and feel it unroll

I’ll fill a plastic bucket with water
And soap
And go at the car with a sponge
Irregular shaped and brown
Holes of different sizes
A real sponge
The kind that used to be alive

And once I’ve sudsed off all the dirt
And wrung it into the bucket
I’ll turn the hose on the car

Spray off the suds
And expose the shining, metallic, tiny flakes
Fixed underneath the glossy green

And last,
I’ll take the chamois to it
It was once alive like the sponge
Or on something alive

And when night comes
I’m gunna swing open the heavy, metal door
And slide in
Onto the leather bench seat

I’ll put in the key, and turn it
And give her some gas

Twist on the radio
And roll down the window
Then reach behind the steering wheel
And click down the shifter

I’ll ease off the brake
And roll onto the side street
Turn right, and

Drive

Out into the night

Like in some Springsteen song

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A Sign That It’s Warm Enough – Poem 2 of 30 for National Poetry Month

The Robin

Evening drive home
Tollway, then divided highway
Then neighborhood street

The goal is to do it
Without stopping
Anything, not to stop

This evening I made good time
Less traffic
Since tomorrow is Good Friday

At my street
I pressed the opener
Then turned into the driveway

To roll
Straight up
Into the garage

But I stopped
About fifteen feet short
Not to crash into…

The robins
Three of them close together
In low-altitude battle

Flitting
Rising and falling
Then landing and scurrying

A sign that it’s warm
Enough to open the windows
For a while

To lie in bed and listen
To the frogs’ continuous croaking
More like creaking

Like the sound of a finger
Across the thin upturned teeth
Of a black, plastic comb

The frogs’ creaking
Carried my wife to dreaming
While I stayed awake

Listening past the frogs
To the far-off engine whine
Of a motorcycle

The sound on a highway
A rider leaning forward
Accelerating into the night

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