ALWAYS INSPIRATION
I like to read the poems
other
poets call their
favorites; one’s
of always inspiration,
enjoyment,
memory unbidden; or
remorse,
guilt, despair. These
last I could
do without but know I
won’t,
and read on immersed.
I have my Uncle John’s
rosary in its leather
snap
case. He died going into
New Guinea in ‘44.
Dead on wet sand, in
surf
for two days. Rosary and
stitched case reek to
this
day still of seawater.
WHY, IT’S ONLY GRASS
What is the thing,
what sacramental truth,
rampages our non-deified,
miserly souls, and con-
flates, blooms and
flowers in a fruitful
construct and manu-
factures fealty from
low condition? What is
that thing that hands
us out of darkness to
breathe in enveloping
walking plains, buffeted
sky, beneficent light; yet
dark for rest and respite?
Then the aborning sun again,
and again, and again?
What thing, what part
of god is this? Why, it’s
grass. Just grass. Grass.
A SLICE OF CHERRY PIE
I read what interests me,
of course, and what does
not. I walk about. View the
reflections in store windows.
A city bus reflected rushing
by might be the highlight of
my walking day. A slice of
hotel cherry pie is always
to my taste. There are, yes,
other times, of course, that
I just wander off and waste.
Al poems© John Flynn
