Timing
by
James J. Roberts

Watering cans
stand spout to spout
ready to pour their water out
on zinnias that shout colors out
at sun and sky and clouds,
clouds that wreak of rain, no doubt,
but refuse to let it out
to quench the draught
that wipes my little garden out.

Oh, those watering cans so idly sit
and they so slyly pout,
lazily standing spout to spout
waiting to be hoisted and poured out
across the yard of wilting blooms
that dot the garden path where looms
not a single first bloom...or a last
unless you count the summer past.

The roses bloom their troubled best
as chickadees feather-up their nests,
but birds and blooms
and parched brown earth
all feel the dirth
of drenching rain
to quench their thirst
So, I sigh, take off my shirt,
and lift the cans, with less than mirth
that, thank God, now contain
the nearest thing there is to rain
(water from a kitchen drain)
and pour them out
one by one with careful pain
parsing water there - then here
...then here and there - again.

But when I finish this kind chore
the flowers quietly ask for more.
So, dutifully I obey
until they are sated
at the end of day.
But when at last I stop and sit;
pleased, proud and tired of watering it
and sip my summer tea
then...just then a gentle rain
begins to fall on my garden
path and rocks and wall
and on every bloom and bush
...and me.

 

The Bicycle
  by
  JamesJRoberts

leant against a weathered fence at night
its copper basket
empty
tires
     tired and cracked
from wear and tear
     and worse - neglect
its frame remembers...

remembers
     summer jaunts on dusty island roads
     through grassy fields
     of dandelions and daisies
     abuzz with weeds and bees and hot
remembers
     picnics
     baguettes and summer wine
     ants crawling on the cheese
     and laughter in the breeze
remembers
     a glance, a kiss
     a sigh
     helloes - goodbyes
     scrapped knees and tear stained eyes
remembers
     summer nights and smiles
     June bug songs and fireflies
     peddling uphill - hard
     and coasting - coasting down

but now...quiet...quiet
leant against a weathered wooden rail at night
it languishes in spokes of sudden silence
and its stilled squeaky rusty wheels
composed of memories
desire nothing more
than one more
young and
happy
rider.

The Newscasters' Chalice
by
James J. Roberts

Babbling throngs of them drink deep by day and night
eating Peace and Quiet with spoon and fork of odd delight
and giving back hearts of only ache and loss
and oh so anxious nights
where stars fall lost
to wary thoughts
and Beauty
bows to fear
until, at last
all is lost
and chaos
is all there is for all to hear.

Lily's First Birthday
by
James J. Roberts

Now that you're ONE, you can jump and run,
tickle and giggle and have all kinds of fun!
TWO, of course, is as good as ONE
...but don't do TWO -- 'til you've done ONE!

ONE is for climbing and knocking things over
for spilling your cereal and rolling in clover.
While TWO is for later...and thinking things over
before dumping your cereal or eating the clover!

ONE is the greatest and first of all birthdays
and I wish you, Lily, and your parents, too,
all of the fun of discovering all you can do
now that you're ONE...and heading for TWO!

Earth Light
or
TOO LATE THE DAWN
by
James J. Roberts
 

Why too soon old...and too late wise?
Why so hard to fly and so easy, fall?
Why time goes one way
or two some days
or neither way at all
when sadness calls
and we are all
alone?
Why?
     WHO knows?
          You?

Why a father's hand
not always kindly lands
or why some lie,
yell battle cries,
or even if,
when they die,
they die
and are
all done
...or just begun?
     WHO knows?
          You?

Who was first to understand
the fear and greed
that rule our land
and rape our breed
are rotted seeds
in tired hands
that always
need and need
but cannot
feed?
     Who knows?
          Who?
               You?

Who'll sees the Creed
of the wild tides of time
that reads,
"Only the real
-- lasts
and has
since time began."?
Who apprehends
the unwrit command
that Truth and Beauty...
must with Love
go hand-in-hand?
What blind eye sees?
What deaf ear hears
     Who knows?
          Who?
                You?

Who'll comprehend and this?
Today's first-born, perhaps?
A death-bed widow in a final gasp?
One gathered there to mourn?
Or will it only be the final man
on earth to roam
who'll come to know,
at last
too late,
that
too late
came the knowing dawn,
with the time for doing -- past?

Who?

    Who knows? 

                      You?  

 

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