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Best Poems Written by Judith Angell Meyer

Below are the all-time best Judith Angell Meyer poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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His Funeral

That he planned his funeral is factual
And being a prankster quite actual
He prerecorded his voice
So when we kneeled on the joist
He said, "Hi there! Don't I look natural."

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Homeward

Her journey begins.
Moving through soft veils and mists,
Pilgrimage homeward.

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The Kiss

He looks at her
Body calm - head cocked.

Her body rigid
vibrating with excitement.

The Kiss -
Said goodbye

	




By Judith Angell Meyer — 4/4/2015

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Sensual

Kahlua drizzled on top
Ice cream sliced like pie.
Dark fudge floats in the center.
Crumbled oreo crust
Floating in hot fudge.
Ambrosia
Joy!

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Abc's

Any bold cloud dancing 
enjoys flirting gallantly,
hoisting; inspiring; jousting;
knowing laughter makes nice orchestrations
particularly quenching raw spirits
teaching unabashed vanity

While Xylophones yammer zanily.

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Rebuilding the Shed In the Backyard - Again

My son is out fixing up the shed.
Winter is coming on. Needed doing he said.
He had the time and the bound-to’s.
I’m not used to this thought process, I’m not. Not from a child.

I watch him for a while.
Opening and closing gates as needed.
The dust, sifted into powder from summer’s heat, poof’s with his steps.
The heels of his jeans dragging strings on the ground, erase the tread of his 
boots.

The shed is old. There is algae or lichen on the north side boards,
where the wood is splintery gray.
Some of the lichen florets are the color of sage, some the color of a bright orange 
rust,
Circled with gray ones and black, their life cycle played out.

He hammers nails and screws in screws while holding boards in place.
Sweat glistening where skin is exposed, making long dark stains in his black 
shirt.
Veins standing out against the strain, and
Muscles laboring to prove he can do the job well, without a mother’s help.

While he works I think about his father and how differently they work.
His father preferring team work and orchestrated smooth motion
working side by side, no extra movements – and he whistled.
My son needs to prove his skills first – alone.

The shed is done and it will brave another winter, keeping the horses sheltered 
from the elements.
The wind, snow and horses milling about, will obliterate the trail of pant cuffs, 
Along with the memory of one cool day at the end of summer, 
When a man worked hard to rebuild their shelter.

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Mailman

In my day, the mail carrier was called the Mailman.
However, I don't recall any women choosing the profession.
He came to our house twice a day.
Once in the morning,
And once in the afternoon.
 
Time went slower then
and he had time.
He could deliver the mail
and talk to us kids a while too.
 
Once when he came by
we were playing mumbly-peg.
He asked what we were doing
and we showed him.
 
He got out his own knife
Balanced it on his finger
and ka chunk, it stuck expertly the first time.
His blade stuck in the ground every time.
 
Mine came a little too close to my toes
but stuck. He complimented the risky landing
then folded up his knife and put it back
in the mail bag draped over his shoulder.
 
The leather, old and very worn 
gave way on the edge where he reached in
for the letter that needed to be delivered next door.
Leaning into the weight of the bag,
he was on his way.

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Family Legacy

I met Uncle August on my honeymoon.
I was prepared.
“He won’t talk to you," my new husband told me. 
"He’s a cantankerous old man,
so don’t be hurt, he doesn’t talk to anyone.”

He was in his 70's.
I was 20.
He was ill.

He was right where I was told he would be,
sitting at a long wooden table in a large kitchen.
One that had fed large families
and farm workers
for decades.

His arms were spread out to his sides
enlarging his lung cavity
so he could breathe easier.

His head was hung between his shoulders;
a long crooked ash hung
at the end of his lit cigarette
between gnarled and stained fingers.

He looked up to me when I was introduced and he talked.
We talked and laughed,
nonstop,
for two hours.

Thirty-seven years later his nephew,
at his long wooden kitchen table,
elbows extended so he could breathe,
Oxygen snaking its way into ruined lungs,
head hung low,
trying to nap.

Was he remembering Uncle August?

Unable to breathe
paramedics took him away.
He never came home.

His children said their tearful goodbyes — 
and now they wait 
to take their place 
at the long wooden kitchen table.

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Hunting Buddies

Christmas of my tenth year brought a four-ten shotgun.
No longer a tag-along kid
Assaulting the deep drifts struggling to keep up,
But a real hunting buddy.

First rule was to memorize the ten commandments of gun safety.
I labored with those rules.
Would we ever really go hunting?
We would go to the sand pits for target practice.
I could shoot good.

Then began lessons to drive.
Not really drive, but just as Daddy showed me,
I would, with exaggerated movements, put the car in forward,
Then reverse, and move it back and forth a few feet.
Stretching my spine to its straightest to see over the wheel,
And my toes to their longest to reach the clutch and break.
The makings of very heady stuff for such a little person to control a great monster 
car.
I drove great adventures in those back and forth few feet.

I didn’t really comprehend what he meant
When he told me I might be the only one
To drive for help in case of an accident.
So I learned, and loved the driving too.

It made me more and more my daddy’s boy,
And more and more impatient for the day to come.
The car mastered,
We headed home from the sand pits.

The day was gray and damp and promising snow.
The car heater blasting back the cold.
Cheeks stinging with color,
I would finally, slowly, pull from memory each word of each rule,
Adding a definition in my own ten year old words.

With ear crushed to my bedroom door,
I strained with every fiber to hear Daddy’s muffled tones.
He told Mom he was going hunting in the morning.
Then with breath caught up in lungs so tense they hurt,
Eyes squinted so closed it forced a tear,
Just as if I made it happen, he added,
“I’ll be taking Judy.”

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Haiku

Sweet rain cleans the air
As vastness stretches before me
Heaven touches earth