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Susan Buchel Poem
stuffed critters line the dashboard
of the V-dub he takes every day
to visit her where she rests
his bent fingers pluck strings
serenade
little princess sightless
except for shadows, sees
the cloudless day and beams
the brightest crooked-smile
gratitude
feisty one drives big truck
one leg to pump the pedals
which one, the gas of course!
while she dreams of evenings
dancing
bike pedals turning, churning
on his daily fitness route
he ventured out, not accepted
came home to lead
belonging
rubber boots, wide-brimmed hat
hands toil earth creating beauty
short strong arms set nets
He reaps ocean's bounty through
serenity
*the unmentionable word of all time – leprosy. The stigma still exists for those who have long been rid of Hansen's Disease. The only unclean thing is the heart of mankind.
Dedicated to all those who have honored and touched my heart on Molokaí.
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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Susan Buchel Poem
matted furball fluff
ears ragged, tail disheveled
shaved to summer 'do
now look so skinny -
slick, girly, all clean and white
hardly know it's you
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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Susan Buchel Poem
white helium balloon
not quite taut
from summer heat and long ride
in the rental car
let fly
by a son
to picture a father
going to a better place
crowd of friends, family
circle round
watch the orb
rise ? just slightly
then hover
just overhead
string dangling forlornly
barely out of towhead's grasp
sad eyes turn to adults
unspoken comes the question, "Why?"
"Never one to leave a party early"
nods a bearded desert-rat
slowly the drooping symbol
wafts past onlookers
barely skimming yard, garden
comes to stop over newly-mown alfalfa field
Gravity persists
drops it slowly
string entwines
among the green stubble
a calloused hand finds
young boy's shoulder,
shaking, as tears fill
saddened brown eyes
"Heaven's whereever he most loved to be, son.
That'd be right here. His flight was short."
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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Susan Buchel Poem
Boy, such a gas
Boy, so much fun
Boy, what a job
Boy, wanna run
Oh, the pleasure
Oh, the pain
Oh, the freedom
Oh, the strain
Gee, a poem?
Gee, with blanks?
Gee, let's try it
Gee, no thanks!
Got an idee
Got a glimmer
Got to figure
Got to simmer
Look, it's coming
Look, it's here
Look, I'm rhyming
Look, my dear !
Eek, I'm stymied
Eek, can't think
Eek, come on brain
Eek, on brink
Dang, I'm close now
Dang, I've got it
Dang, the word's come
Dang, in pocket!
Scrabble's a fine game
if with a Q not hobbled
But to tell you the truth,
I'd rather be BOGGLED!
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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Susan Buchel Poem
Urban asphalt trail
becomes home's huck-pickin' slope.
Blackberries are ripe!
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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Susan Buchel Poem
Ow, my darkling
My lope for you is endive
There will never be anonymous
To take your peace
Your voice sinks to me
in lovely harmless
Yoghurt heart beats with mine
in unisom
Togother we wall in steep
drown life$s cobbled pathetic
Handle in hand
forever, foreman
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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Susan Buchel Poem
Light plays
across my soul
with the taunting touch of a lover
resting softly on places once dead
now unfolding, surprised
by color, texture, warmth
But then - gone
no, there, again, flitting
lighting yet another gray valley
arousing emotion
where none had existed,
or maybe had once
but learn-ed dullness
caused it to
retreat
hide
Feathersoft,
erratic, even playful
movements
my mind tries to
anticipate or follow
in vain
only able to allow
the play to
entice,
licking away
thin layers
of doubt,
regret,
shame.
Spaces
where only a “now”
blossoms - shyly first,
then emboldened
by each random
touch
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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Susan Buchel Poem
I didn't hear the elk bugle
this year
Oh, god,
I hope it was only
my ear
deaf
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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Susan Buchel Poem
Come into the soup
my wordy friend coaxed
you'll really like it there
They are quite a group
these poet-type folks -
creative thoughts and flair
I peeked at the troupe
the world each invokes
and finally took his dare
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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Susan Buchel Poem
Christmases Past, on Mantel Hung
Three stockings line the hearth, each one a "tail"
of warm Christmas past, of love
hand-knitted, chewed by pup!
submitted by Susan Buchel for "Christmas Stockings Tribute" Contest.
Written 11/6/2011 with thanks for prodding homespun memories!
Copyright © Susan Buchel | Year Posted 2011
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