IT WAS THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING.

The clouds were opening up
Presenting the beautiful rays of the sun..
The birds on the sprigs of the young tree.
Were singing their morning songs of twedle de, twedle dum songs of spring.

It had been a gentle rain ,to make the flowers grow.
Small puddles penetrated the earth to bring new growth.
So the gardners could maintain the soil to sew.
To make the new flowers grow.

of diverse and sundry sizes engaged
in woebegone wild rumpus
as a last hoorah
for diversity, equity and inclusion,
whose somber bowed heads
(hide their snickers
just a kiss away)
their backsides mimicked
tufted heavenly clouds
interspersed amidst with imaginary fallen angels
softly chanting profane funereal requiem,
where a former
warren of dust bunnies galore
met their ill fate getting vacuumed
hashtagged as sinners
in the hands of an angry dog.

The body has betrayed this once hale and hearty man
but he still does what he can
so what if crows feet have become crevasses
no vanity here
he still sasses the kids and kids around with his old cronies,
those left

And if he's now bereft of sensual pleasure,
what does it matter
memories of younger days are still embedded
in the recesses of his brain

Eagle eyes clouded, sensations shrouded
he still revels in children's laughter, tilled dark earth
and early buds
showing with the first spring rain

Sadness occurred on this last fatal day
Often without the words we failed to say

We all watched as nature fulfills its toll
Often wishing we had found a better role

We start to review this terrible week
Hoping to be able to hear her speak

A sister plagued from the day she was born
Filled with pain and suffering that we mourn

She lived her life with all the choices she made
Even after we offered her our aide

We said our prayers hoping she could hear
Knowing that death was now ever so near

Eye of Newt, and toe of frog.
Wool of bat, and tounge of Dog.
Adders fork,and Blind worms sting.
Lizard's leg, and howlets sting--

For a charm of powerful trouble.
Like a Hell--broth boil and bubble.
Double, Double, tail and trouble.
Fire burn and cauldron bubble

I envy our dogs faces
as they crunch their noisy treats.
Chewing with open mouths,
seemingly as loudly as they can.

Their joy is not possible to overlook.
Even before they have finished,
they secretly hope for another.

The black construction bag, rolling down the stair
I watched the load that shifted, twisted...
was surprised I didn't care.

It deserved no less than proper disposal.
It was putrid, dirty and vile.
Been hanging out in the closet, just a little while.

The sheets of skin, all shedded dead,
are prepared to meet the end, you see.
I'm done with them, I do believe, at least here in my head.

From photographs appearing
on my laptop
in the year 2018
Shaya's there
in all his glory
and he's even half smiling,
standing,
hovering
over Sarah and Boris,
Faye
and next to me.

Yesterday
was my birthday.
It all happened
in the morning.
I saved that photo
in as many places as I could..
It made me
glow inside
and feel the warmth.

The world, a scratched record, skips,
a longing for sun-scorched knees, a hose's arc.
"Better," a ghost word, a sun-bleached photograph,
before the static, the fractured, the stark.
Bare feet on hot concrete, summer's endless haze,
clean air a promise, in those simpler days.
A phantom echo, a desperate, silent plea,
to rewind the tape, and simply, just simply, be.

The bully’s lesson, laced with spite,
would say it wrong to start a fight.
And when he opens mouth to speak,
the bully makes himself look weak.

He calls it strength, he calls it might,
he hides beneath his hood of white.
A handshake firm, a sneering grin,
a broken promise, his skin so thin.

Let’s face it, he’s no diplomat,
a stage for thugs in fake combat,
and we the world see his game,
he comes out shouting, shifting blame.