Pet Poems

Pet Poems

By jim bourey

1.

Deprived of dogs.

Cheated out of cats.

My parents didn't believe in pets.

Not even fish.  And now I live

in a long term loving menagerie.

2.

Little girls love ponies and my

sister loved hers. Her pet pony

was imaginary, easy to groom

and feed but not so easy to torment.

So, instead, I tormented my sister.

3.

Ginger was my first pet, a retriever

named for an old girlfriend, a fine

dog, wise and patient. When I’d pet

her I’d feel calm, relieved, no longer

worried. I truly need Ginger today.

4.

When my pit bull

killed my neighbor's cockatoo

I was sued. But the damn bird

provoked Butch. He doesn't like

bad imitations of his high pitched bark

5.

We kept Smoky in the freezer

until springtime and softer ground.

Then, with proper ceremony, we placed

her, in her Nike box, into a deep grave.

We have coyotes in our neighborhood.

Reunion Moments

Reunion Moments

By jim bourey

Remember the cafeteria boycott,

the big deal over a small issue that

got the manager fired? The woman

had a problem in her job, then she

had a bigger problem feeding her

own family. No one thought about

retraining in those good old high

school days. And how could we

forget starting those fraternities

and sororities in our later school years?

So cool, another way to exclude kids

already on the margins of that tight

knit society. In those days it wasn't

so hard to drop out. Some did when

going to school became a gauntlet

of ridicule and teasing. But hey,

it was all in good fun. Right? And

after school we would go down

to Main Street to the soda shop,

have our malted milkshakes

and vanilla phosphates, make fun

of the Greek waitress with the speech

impediment. Some of the guys could

do a really accurate impression. To

her face. Rudely. Just one more happy

memory from those golden high

school days. And now fifty years

have gone by and we celebrate our

selves. I wonder how Karma works? 

Remarkable Movements

Remarkable Movement

By jim bourey

Oh for the day of unremarkable bowels

when they required only a few moments

attention, a peaceful interlude without

growls or gurgles, with no sudden rushes

of fluids and solids, or worse, yea, that

issuing forth of life’s red essence bringing

alarm as it stains porcelain bowl and its

tarry contents. Now quickly to the medics

full of concern and queries.  Then on to

probing and needles jabbed into veins.

Further yet to brick-faced, white-halled

buildings with rooms full of frightening

machines passing over my body with

hums and whirls and technicians saying

be still or else.  And yet more needles

and potions and questions and vague

answers until body and mind are weak

and weary. The journey continues

incessant, with foul bowels now

nearly as important as sweet poetry.

Crutches

“Getting in bed, I cuddled next to her good leg.”

Mason Williams 1969

Imperfection is such a burden

and it weighs me down more

with each passing year.  There

is no easing of bodily flaws, no

sudden sharpening of mental

acuity.  No, it all flows away,

                 away until every damn

                    part is bent or stooped

                        or atrophied or unresponsive…

A bum leg was just a curiosity

back when perfection was closer,

when puzzles could be solved

when all the parts had their part

memorized and on good days

life was a symphony of sorts

                 sorted out and possible

                    pleasurable, hopeful

                       full and fulsome and fun…

And tucked away in a closet

is a box of photos, wrinkled

and faded (a simile) showing

a girl with crutches, leg straight

out and cast encased, smiling

slyly while I clutch her arm, grinning

                    a grin both shy

                       and proud, comfortable

                          and very much in love…

Snowstorm's A' Comin'

Here comes the forecast snow.

Looks like it’ll be a real big blow.

All the weather girls and boys

are making lots of scary noise.

Every channel has the story.

NOAA’s in its warning glory

Our governor has a real good plan

the snow plow driver’s name is Stan.

Look at all the grocery stores.

People knocking down the doors

milk and meat and loaves of bread

a block of cheddar cheese to shred.

Don’t forget the Quaker oatmeal.

This dang place is sure surreal.

Every Wilma, Joe and Jane

is rushing to the quick check lane.

Gas stations all are really busy

drug store clerks are getting dizzy.

Panic’s rising shoulder high

gotta find some stuff to buy.

Shovels, gloves, flour and salt

some liquor made with good old malt.

Supplies are now set in place

no more need to rush and race.

With a little bit of Frenchman’s luck

plows will all get soundly stuck.

Then when Wednesday rolls around

we’ll still be sweetly hunkered down

with no particular place to go

just looking out at all the snow.

Maybe stay beneath the covers

acting like two young lovers.

Winter Remnant

This morning the wind got under my coat.

A cold wind, a late winter remnant.

Spring is not distant now and it’s a sure

thing that coats, hats and scarves will

soon be in the dark of the closet.

From tall reeds a blue heron lifted

its ungainly wings becoming an angel

in flight, following a narrow stream

deftly tipping, dodging branches making

a smooth passage through the shushing

wind, this late winter remnant.

Near the end of the trail the parking

lot was crowded as I finished my walk.

Men, women and several small children

headed for the playground, too many

for this work day.  But they tried

to enjoy our cool sunshine in spite

of the harsh wind, a late winter remnant.

Night Sounds

Silence. And yet a sound slips

softly into the night.  Then there is

another joining in.  A night song now.

One more voice, that high call, a howl

and another in response.  Still more

as I listen closely to the darkness.

It is a struggle to put names to

all those sounds.  Some are simple;

crickets, frogs, coyote lovers making

their mating plans, that wild cat I saw

last week, old Joe’s dog up on the hill.

But some sounds are not so easily

named.  What is that shushing or

the noise that seems like an old

man coughing or the sigh that

doesn’t come from the pines?

In the night I listen for comfort

with fear I listen to the night.