All poems by Lawrence J. J. Leonard
Slapping skirts and ties and hats
the pushy wind makes acrobats.
Stalwart trees now bow then break.
The flurry spreads. No give and take.
Pets and birds and cows take shelter
from the swirly dusty helter skelter.
The strings of kites snap a goodbye
and starward do the sails now fly.
To the house and behind the door
stillness found on the cool floor.
For heat of summer or winter’s freeze
the wind cares not, be it tempest or breeze.
All retired warriors scarred
from the quest to find love at home,
so also their rivals in war.
Steeped in the traditions of pain,
unwilling to seek peace first, are
since buried. Now, we look ahead.
Whispers in my ear
Because your whispers in my ear
how love ought to grow soon,
I broke away.
Here I stand far away
to start fresh without old ties
or unwanted traditions.
Blossom in spring
Hands that cradled the grandchild
now shake from years of toil,
and from nourishing the compost beds
to coax life from soil.
Slender and green the thorny stalk
upon which a pink rose shows,
is clipped and put into a vase
for the babe, now grown, who knows.
Water from the skies
Thunder and lightning have passed.
Here, under the crepe myrtles
droplets of fury dot the ground
Our turbulent love affair
is just a mist in the wake.
I still feel your arms around me
and your kisses dot my memory.
The breeze over us
The breeze over us
spills fragrant clover and pear
between our fingers
as we close our eyes against the morning sun.
The rush and rumbling,
combing past our ears,
forces the scents of spring
between our lips.
Joy resounds in your chest
and between your lips a tune vibrates,
sending messages of sweetness
of how happy you seem to be.
Louder and louder it fills the room
until I find myself smiling
and trailing along at the melody
to wherever it takes you.
Before the prairie could be walked
the hill country had to be climbed.
From tribal villages across the ocean
a family of artists made their way to Texas.
Their ancient language left to ancestors
but their old ways of cooking we learned.
Over two hundred years in this new summit,
they celebrate new customs in the wooded dales.
Farmers and bock cowboys standing under one flag
sharing music and beer and culture
in much the same way our Mexican forefathers
cared for us in the old days of this territory.
The cries of the gull are laughter.
Seas are calling at ebb tide.
Shimmering water of the darkest blue
Curvy colored shells sink straight down
as the evening falls and waves rise.
Toes in the sand with heads in the clouds.
Copyright © 1960-2016 Lawrence J. J. Leonard All rights reserved.