Son’s Lament

Awakening to this new day

thinking of my Mom

the many things I’d like to say

remembering She’s gone

not one poem that I write

no grand accomplishment

equal what she’s done for me

and that I do regret

 

R.S.H. 1/3/47-1 /8/2016

(R.I.P. Mom. You’ve more than earned it.)

 

 

 

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Civil Conversation

Less and less patient

I find myself,

with the empty, trifling

etiquette of civility.

 

Such polite mannerisms

meant to preserve,

delicate sensibilities

which are themselves

in costume.

 

How unfashionable!

to speak directly,

of one’s circumstances

when asked.

 

Couch the response

termed so,

that it hints at an answer

bearing no sharp edges.

 

Pay the compliments

unearned, undeserved,

insincere though they are.

 

praise highly!

achievements so minute

they resemble wisps

of sunrise mist.

 

Treat subjects of deep consequence

coquettishly,

certainly we are above

such concerns.

 

Hardly worth mention,

a failed crop, a drought, famine

in light of the impending release

of the season’s theatre schedule.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Growing Silence

Seasons come and go,

with them familiar and well-loved voices,

fade sadly into eternity.

With each one stilled

a new blossom of quietude

is birthed into the world,

but doesn’t remain.

Unknown, unrecognized timbres

fill the space.

For these alien inflections,

I find within me

no affection.

And so turn away,

into the growing silence.