Ode to the Aphids
You’ve come here to do battle
my little aphid fiends,
but in the end I’ll get ya
by any mortal means.
In pow’dry fine white armies
you chew my plants to shreds.
Where are the winged predators
you nasty critters dread?
The ladybugs have flown away
their plant-lice meal untouched.
I’m forced to fight with chemicals
and other toxic stuff.
I march out to my garden
with several cans of DEET
But then I stop. Consid’ring,
that all bugs gotta eat.
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Gonna
I was gonna make a podcast for you
I was gonna drive out to see
gonna record a movie
gonna send a recipe
I was gonna write
gonna call
gonna txt
I was gonna
gonna
gonna
but none of that will happen
one of us died yesterday
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Ms. Perish
The woman
next door
soon to be
a widow
hears hospice nurses whisper,
“Won’t be long now.”
Her affect blank
who knows
what goes on behind
hollow eyes
what thoughts she won’t
allow herself to ponder?
As relentless cancer
in evil stealth
claims ever more
of his weak cachexic body
she watches life seep from lips that
cannot form words she aches to hear.
How will she live
after the last shovel of dirt
is thrown on his coffin
on lips she kissed good night
on fingers whose supple touch
once caressed her willing body?
The sound of his
unmerited complaints
that once pinched her heart
and turned her tense face red
will be missed
once the house is empty.
Alone, she’ll do chores
they once did in tandem
pay bills
fix a leaky faucet
take the dog to the vet
patch a broken step.
She’ll struggle to
pull death by its withered roots
out of the garden
throw its brittle twigs
onto the compost pile.
Alone.
Friends will fall away
not knowing what to say
when she is
un-coupled
a blight, a pariah
a third wheel in a paired world.
Through cheerless seasons of
chill rains and shuttered dreams
she will feed the cat and iron blouses.
Then one morning discover
the bush he planted
has borne a single rose.
Flying With Billy Collins
Most days I never seem to give Billy enough attention. At dawn, I’m too immersed in loading the toaster, pouring water into the Keurig, finishing a crossword puzzle. Or perhaps just looking out my window. The day slips into the past before I can grab hold.
But when it’s time to fly, Billy is always at my side, taking my jittery hand, calming my turbulent thoughts. Winging together to different lands, streaking through the pink and blue stands of sky or the bands of bilious angry gray clouds.
Often he rests in the fold-out seat pocket at my knees, waiting to be roused by a drop of champagne spilled on his shiny jacket, which I wipe with a silent apology. Unphased, he soothes my jangles, as my eyes graze the words he has pieced together like painted wagons in a circus parade.
He knows I will soon forget the poems and images doodled upon the pages. Forget, as I jostle my way down the concourse, wait for the bag with the yellow bow lashed to its handle to spin onto the conveyor belt.
Billy is my companion until I reached the jetway. And there he halts, leaving his imprint on board the aluminum condor. He settles back, awaits the return flight, when his verse and the angels will assure my calm, safe passage home.
Mary Lonze Kennedy 