Birds at my Feeder

A goldfinch sits on my feeder, feeding,

brilliant against the green of my garden,

while below, the tufted blue jays

patiently await the seeds to fall,

gleaning what they can, them

and the doves, the squirrels and chipmunks,

feeding together while the honeybees

flitter flower to flower, red and blue and yellow.

Rocking Chair Song

In the living room, this late in my life,

sits an old rocking chair, spindly, just gathering dust

and age in the corner’s shadowy space of time.

It’s mostly unused now, no baby to rock to sleep,

no children or grandchildren, none to hold, blanket-

wrapped, in the early morning’s chill settling around us,

the floor creaking under its curved wooden rockers,

back and forth, and back again, wood on wood caressing,

playing its rocking chair song, rhythmic and steady,

an ancient lullaby to sing us back to sleep;

and rocking, your breath, shallow and soft,

matches mine, deep and labored, rhythmic, too,

our own harmony in this rocking chair’s music

played back and forth, and back again, wood on wood.

Late in my life, in the living room,

sits an old rocking chair, spindly and unused,

its song unsung in the corner’s shadowy space of time.

Lonely Child

Slippered feet, scuffling, take me home

to the twin beds in the room I shared

with my brother, my older brother, Mike,

the eldest son, across a short stretch of carpet

in a bed matching mine, black iron frame

with fresh sheets and a warm blanket, tucked tight.

He was missing, of course, any stuffed and furry friends,

the assortment of creatures who occupied my covers, 

each in his place, his rightful space on my bed,

neatly arranged and settled around me

to keep me safe in the darkness of night,

a moon shining in, my only nightlight,

this lonely child in a shared room ...

slippered feet, scuffling.

Nostalgia

The steady click of sprocketed film

racing from reel to reel in a maze of loops

and clips and doors provided the soundtrack

for these tiny pictures projected onto a screen

in rapid succession, duplicating the motion

captured by an old movie camera, an 8mm,

ancient today, an artifact from a distant past.

The pictures, once colored, have since bleached

to shades of gray and white, washed out,

or interrupted by a splash of yellow, orange,

bright white, light leaked onto this aged film.

My parents had bought the camera, sleek and new,

to capture our childhood, then locked it away in a box

we found in the attic long after they were gone,

and our childhood even longer gone, so far back

as to be forgotten, these faded images of strangers

cavorting on a beach, running and splashing, parties 

with candled cakes and ice cream, kids, hand in hand,

exploring the trails of an amusement park gone, too,

the animals freed and the cages, rides, and ticket booths

dismantled, gone to rust and rot, overgrown,

merely memories to be recalled, memories

replayed on faded movies, the soundtrack

but the steady click of sprocketed film,

racing like the years going forward, into the past,

a soundtrack of the life we had shared and forgotten

in growing up, becoming our parents and theirs,

reminded again of what we had, what we’d lost,

and what sustained us in the passing years,

recaptured here racing reel to reel,

setting us free now in the tears we shed,

watching and wondering where it all had gone.