If This Was The Last Day

If this was the last day

that you would walk,

what revered place might

you hike - to reach?

If this was the last day

that you could hear,

what sounds would soothe

you through - deaf years?

If this was the last day

that you had sight,

what precious scene

would you hope - to see?

If this was the last day

that you had a voice,

what would the lines be

that you - would speak?

If this was the last day

that you could feel

love, whom would you

hold - in your arms?

If this was the last day

you were able - to think,

would you dare –

to open - your mind?

If today, you had only one wish,

would it be for whole-world peace?

If this was your last day on earth,

what unique gift - would you leave?

Coffee Shop Scene

Outside the glass wall,

snow falls as salt --

from a sky shaker.

Inside, satirical artwork

plasters the facing

brick wall. It’s late

morning; musicians

drag in. Baristas

have stopped hissing

and fussing. Empty

mugs sit, foam drying

on wobbly tables,

creased muffin wraps

hint at cranberry. Blog

sites glow as patrons –

one toe in the ‘hood –

text with internet buds.

The morning paper, tossed

from sticky hands to

crumb-skewed chairs

screams a local headline --

now old news to all.

Couch slipcovers crawl

toward the floor. The

lighting is poor.

Why do we stay?

Clapton is wailing:

“Well if I’ve done somebody wrong,

Lord, have mercy if you please.”

Shot

Shot --

the hammock

snapped, --

dropped

us down.

Shot --

the tulip heads –

stems left aground.

Shot --

the weeping

cherry .

Blink and we

miss its glory;

blossoms dust the

mid-May lawns.

Shot –

another

Rochester teen –

no words

to explain

or gang

to blame.

Shot – his

parents’ dream

to smithereens.

Shot –

a prayer to

Heaven to

heal their

grief.

New Life Gossip

(for Richard and Grace)

Right -- Poetry is not Memoir --
voice of the poem, yada, yada.
Are you kidding me? Did you
see him with her? Have
you read his new book?
Those love poems rise up
like hot air balloons at the
Bristol Balloon Festival --
purple, yellow, red, green,
and oh, my gondola—
when his shoulders
press into hers, tweed
jackets or not—you
know what I’m saying?
They were sizzling like
bacon on a griddle at
an Eddie Rocket Diner.
They had their lesson plans,
books, their serene teacher
faces – all-is-copasetic looks.
But when she lifted her
eyes to glance at him,
he felt it right through
the back of his head.
I’ll tell you this, girlphone--
that new book of his? He
is just getting warmed up.

Confiserie Delicés

for Sarah

Returning to New York

from France, encumbered

with all your old and new

clothes, paraphernalia, art

supplies, and souvenirs,

you thought of us, and

brought us dark chocolate

pralines. We’ve savoured

each one, (and in true Heveron

tradition, one petite piece remains).

We also thought of you,

exploring old Europe,

learning the fine points of

French, the customs, attitudes,

and anecdotes you’ll remember

forever in your mind.

We envisioned you laughing

in Paris, like Audrey

Hepburn in Sabrina.

Someday you will tell your

stories – (l’intrigue!), show

your sketches, -- (le croquis!),

write un mémoire merveilleux

of that notable year. I would

love to know which moment

stands out in your mind, like

a framed old photograph,

which speaks to your soul.

I know that you accomplished

something huge, and amazing.

And I know you kept our love

in your pocket, like a lucky

worn coin. And when you

came back, with a slightly

new smile on your face,

you gave us sweet chocolate.

Aural Love

Sometimes it’s not

what you say --it

is only your voice

that I hear.

And it is not

my deafness or

poor listening skills.

It is just that the sound

of your voice is enough.

Yes --you are right.

I am writing this

about you! I am

a visual learner,

but an aural lover.

I adore the sound of

your voice. I shiver

in the hills and valleys

of your tonal range.

Your words thrill

like fireflies in the

celestial regions

of my brain.

Then, gone!

I can not capture

or hold them –

nor would I.

Keep

speaking

I’m closing

my eyes.

Poem for Mystie the Cat

You ponder the placement

of a patch of fresh sunlight.

You pounce and capture

its heat; own it’s place

for awhile.

Then your warm little

body leaps onto my lap.

And I wish you long life--

even longer than mine,

though I know that’s

unlikely.

I let go of these

thoughts

like falling-down sand

through a child’s open

hands.

You settle in to

purring,

pure and soundly

content.

You have pondered

all there is;

there is only one

Sun.

It rises up high in

the morning,

Then bows out softly

when it's done.