So a twelve line poem of 60 syllables- a minute poem.
Where is my cow?
Where is my cow of golden horn
and molars worn
from grinding hay
the livelong day?
Where is my cow of dappled brown
alone in town,
her sweetened cream
is like a dream.
My cow leaves loaves of fragrant shit-
A pie, to whit
releasing gas
and feeding grass.
The meeting- replete with one parent per student
(They won’t tolerate ANYONE being truant)
was the definite thing if you said you were coming
without the permission the kids would be bumming
A Catholic school don’t tolerate much
the boys can all look at the girls but not touch
anywhere not invited (or chaperon’s glare
will cause a disruption with embarrasment to spare)
“There won’t be any substances here that are illicit
Unless you want a well dressed unscheduled visit
to the local police where you might be defended
by mom, dad, or lawyer, but remain suspended
Zero tolerance as always the plan of the day
Each kid to be breathalyzed before they can play”
the warnings were many, but none of them bad
Each student recalled the great time they had
At the last Promenade, full of tuxes and dresses
and the boys fresh haircuts and girls carefull tresses
the excitement it grows as the evening draws near
but the parents still have the occasional fear
So the head Nun stood up and instructed the crowed
“We will make all the parents this pledge” then she vowed
“There will be no cleavage, no underwear showing
There will be no hormonal activity growing”
She then said “The dinner is tasty, delightful!
With naught that a gourmet would consider frightful
Without Alcohol the food will not cause sickness or puking”
and finally she mentioned “There will be no Juking!”
Satisfied that the party would be well attended
and the innocence of students would be well defended
We went home as parents secure in our choices
happy that in this world that there are some sane voices.
And of course haven’t met all the members, but I ran into one last night I took my apprenticeship with… thirty years ago. I hadn’t seen him, really, in all that time.
he was hale and hearty, and had retired and come back, a couple times. It was good to see he’d survived.
He had news of old friends who didn’t. Guys who lived hard and didn’t last. We talked about family members and how time changes us.
When we meet old friends
it’s like a time capsule
a box to be opened
will it be full of pain
or will it bring back joy?
A rubber band
around a stack of trading cards
a roll of caps and a cap gun
trigger so coarsely made it hurts your finger to pull
but you do anyway
a sucrets box with pretty stones
gleaned from a hundred beaches
a piece of cotton padding
a tiny, spiral shell.
The memories those meetings dredge up
are beyond our control
no knowing if the remembrance
will make us smile or cry
I jam my hands into the debris
and try to sieve the pain through my fingers
and filter out only the good moments
Sometimes I succeed.
