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Best Poems Written by Don Groves

Below are the all-time best Don Groves poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Winslow

Two men walk down a dusty street 
in Winslow, Arizona.
One places small white crosses 
at the curb and recites names 
while the other bears witness:

"Juan Fernando Lopez”  
“Presente!”
“Maria Anna Ramos”  
“Presente!”
“Jose Angel Fernandez”  
“Presente!”
“Restos mortales”  (Mortal remains)
“Presente!”

This continues until 
that day’s accounting 
of bodies found in the desert
is complete.

Details | Don Groves Poem

Hanging On

Once she had blossomed, a bold, independent spirit, educator, wife, mother, grandmother; now she is barely hanging on.

I sit beside her bed holding a limp, withered hand in mine. A hand which, when younger and stronger, had drawn colored pencil illustrations of stories she told me about life in far away seacoast villages. Barely outlined fishing boats, sails unfurled, dancing on white waves, fading into the distance; village houses with steeply pitched roofs to shed heavy winter snows; all drawn in a few shades of blue. A collection of those drawings, now framed, are hanging on my walls.

My gaze wanders out the window of her semi-private room, into a small courtyard where a pink dogwood is dropping the last of its spring blossoms. A small branch is broken and by a thin strip of bark, it is barely hanging on.

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Haiku: the Tenor Dove Sings

Raindrops on the pond
Entertainment for goldfish.
Wavelets everywhere.

Everything changes.
we are born, we live, we die
and nothing changes.

Eggs hidden in grass,
Kildeer flies over the field,
Kii, ki ki, ki ki.

Winter is coming
Bringing its rain, snow, and ice.
Spring is in the air!

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The Lion's Tooth

The Lion's Tooth is heaped with scorn,
ripped, reviled, ravaged, torn.
Each spring reborn to man forlorn,
the Lion's Tooth is heaped with scorn.

Born of the grass with yellow amass,
some call him weed,
but I heed not their hateful creed
and I spread not their deadly feed.

On a summer's day, coiffed in gray,
he mounts his stealthy steed
and flies again to primal need,
forevermore to sow his seed.

The Lion's Tooth is heaped with scorn,
ripped, reviled, ravaged, torn.
Yet, to his true nature faithful sworn,
the Lion's Tooth shall ever adorn!

Details | Don Groves Poem

The World At Two Miles An Hour

On an August afternoon
mowing a large patch of grass,
all around me barn swallows 
are swooping, diving, snap rolling,
feasting on insects stirred up
by my mower.
As I pass one sitting
on the top wire of our fence,
our blue eyes meet
in mutual admiration.

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The Word

In the beginning 
was the Word, so they say.
God said the Word 
was good, we are told,
so we rejoice in the Word.
But where is the Word
that stops bullets from flying,
bombs from falling,
and missiles from exploding?
Where is the Word that allows
people to come out from
huts and caves, to stand
listening to the silence?

Details | Don Groves Poem

Roadkill

At a checkpoint sits a four-door sedan, brown paint faded by years of unremitting sun, pitted by hundreds of sandstorms. Only bullet holes exposing fresh metal and the still-inflated tires are new.

Inside, four crimson-splattered corpses: father at the wheel, forced against the seatback by the impact of tens of bullets, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead; mother's head smashed against the caved-out passenger-side window; two children riveted to the backs of the rear seats, a limp rag doll in one lap.

Outside, death lives in the instant silence; hearts slowly descend from throats to resume their monotony; lungs exhale and fear-frozen fingers relax, beginning to feel again.

A year and half later, in his parents' backyard on a sunny Sunday afternoon, a 23-year-old US soldier kills himself with a single bullet to the head.