Super Moon

So much hype on the ‘Super Moon’, I had to go outside a few times to observe. Hope you enjoyed the moment too.

Super Moon

The last strands of daylight are consumed by the dusk,
two geese glide overhead sounding noisy and brusque
there’s a calmness on the prairie; a slight stir in the trees.
the paper I’m reading bends to the breeze
and we all await ….the Super Moon.

The small moon sits ominously atop the horizon like a cap
due east from where I’m sitting with my dog in my lap
here on the porch leading out to the deck
as we wait for the moon to change from a speck
and we hope that that change…. is soon.

The city lights are twinkling five miles to the east
the moon’s in its climb and transforming to a beast
The crickets are clicking and the frogs sing their tune
a hoot owl hoots and, expectantly, the coyote will…. soon
as the little speck is now big and wide.

From where I am sitting it’s hidden by the trees
as I grab my binoculars and stumble through leaves
fresh fallen on the yard as if it were fall
and I’ll mow them again and not get them all
but for now I’ll just kick them aside.

Imperceptibly has appeared a glow in the dark
on the grass, ‘cross the fields, on the buildings and bark
of the trees now stilled by a silence unknown
and an eerie sensation all around has grown
as the Super Moon shines from above.

The hairs on my neck all raise in salute
the moment is mystical;  profoundly acute.
the city lights are dimmer as the light from each star
the glow has now faded…. here and afar
but the ”glow”  moment we shared….was loved.

t. j. gargano

A Beholder’s Beauty

A Beholder’s  Beauty

She sits near by me in constant stare
on porch where a breeze disturbs her hair
as I drink my coffee in a dreamy state;
my mind still heavy, not yet awake.

The sky is laden with clouds of gray.
The air is moistened in falling spray.
Across the field a sound is born
and gives a notice to the coming storm.

The driving rain obscures the field
it comes our way like a thrusting shield.
The raindrops fall; her eyes in squint
that glare at me for any hint

that maybe we will go inside
so she can find a place to hide
from thunder clasps and the wind’s hiss
as she begs the comfort from a hug and kiss.

A beautiful collie my eyes adorn
my constant pal since she was born
with constant fix upon my path
her eyes bestow the love she hath

From room to room she follows me
from near or far her presence be
and whimpers wildly with heart in burn
when I leave home and when I return.

Beauty bounds most everywhere
we have to look; we have to stare
in weeds and rocks and dusty boards
to find the beauty that nature hoards.

The beholder’s eyes see beauty’s heart
in all of life; in every part.
and gathers not a summary of
but shares an insight of nature’s love.

T. J. Gargano

Dream Forest

Another fairy tale twist.

Dream Forest

Her eyes sprung wide; it was not yet light
she could not sleep and she sat upright
and swung her legs down to the floor
and tiptoed softly to the door.

Opened now, hearing nothing at all,
she dressed and left through darkened hall.
Outside she went in dark of morn’
feeling excited…..as if reborn.

Walking along toward the distant trees,
her hair moving barely in the gentle breeze;
light now breaking as she stops to stare
before entering the forest……still unaware.

Streaks, like stairs, through treetops dropped
from sunlight beams the dewdrops plopped
moistening leaves beneath her feet
stepping further into forest deep.

When younger she was forbidden to see this place
but she was bigger now wearing cottons and lace
and she wasn’t afraid of the stories she heard
like wolf and little riding hood…..how absurd.

It was cool in the forest and nothing seemed wrong
but now she was sleepy in a morning, now long
when ahead on her right was the cutest little house
and no one was about…..not even a mouse.

The porch had three rockers each different in size
but still hollering ‘hello’ she got no replies
so she sat in them all though afraid she might sleep
before meeting who lived there….. in the forest deep.

The screen door was open and she smelled something good
and saw three bowls steaming on the table of wood
that was close by the window where out she could see
if anyone would be coming that may not agree…

with her tasting the porridge that was hot to the taste
that she could not let sit there and all go to waste.
But only one bowl there was cool enough to eat
then now all she wanted was a good place to sleep.

At the top of the stairs in the room were three beds
of three different sizes with three different heads.
But the littlest bed was the best of them all
and she snuggled in deeply laying next to the wall.

She awoke to surprises, in fact, there were three
and she ran to the window to gaze out and see
the forest in the distance, smelling breakfast in the air,
now limp against the window pane in dreamlike stare.

Today was her birthday and it wasn’t a dream;
her first surprise was ‘Goldilocks’ who she loved supreme.
The second surprise was a terrarium – a “forest” galore
and three new bears of different size….stood up against the door.

To go to ‘dream’ and then wake up and know you’re back to ‘real’
and want to keep the dream alive and know again that ‘feel’
is sorrowful at first until we come to realize
how transient dreams are part of us and help fulfill our lives.

T. J. Gargano

Two Wayward Geese

In early spring, they appeared almost every night ’round dusk for nearly a month, to the point that I would sit and wait for them and was disappointed the one evening, they didn’t.

Two Wayward Geese

At dusk they come low….. banking out of the west
‘cross the creek near the barn, where the cattle all rest,
then over the trees just east of the house
looking down in the yard at the cat and the mouse
before turning left and angling north.

They’re hard to see, just two spots in the sky,
but it’s easy to hear their loud, noisy cry
as they angle now west over the highway below
and back o’er the creek….. flying over it low
as they constantly squawk back and forth.

Two wayward geese the flock left behind;
escaped the hunter down in the blind
looking around for a new place to stay
with a whole lot of water and a safe place to play
and be safe from predators all around.

They circle three times, just before dark;
their path is near perfect, nary missing the mark
in precision flying that boggles the mind…
their wings never touching…..in close align
their flight into darkness…..profound.

I wait every night for the beckoning call
of these two wayward geese and their display of gall
that pierces the quietness of the calm prairie night
interrupting all pattern… of what’s in their sight
as they scream in high pitch from above.

I know I will miss’em when all’s said and done
and hope it’s not ended by the sound of a gun
this routine they fly over the creek every day
at dusk when the twilight is fading away
when they slip through the darkness…..in love.

T. J. Gargano

The Lamb’s Little Mary

The Lamb’s Little Mary

Mary had a lamb of white,
stubborn thing that liked to fight
and often went against all rule
and often did so, when at school
and then ran home to hide.

Mary was who got in trouble, though,
defending her lamb, white as snow,
cause she couldn’t stop him from following her
and she told her teacher that was the truth, for sure,
as she sat in the chair and cried.

“Well, Miss Mary, I’m sorry to say,”
the teacher said in a gentle way,
“you’ll have to be punished and sent back home
if you come to school and you’re not alone
cause the rules must be obeyed.

So go to the blackboard and write this down…..
‘I will not let my lamb be anywhere around,’
and write it twenty times, so you will know
no lambs can be at school, even lambs as white as snow;
even asking school permission will not be okayed.”

So little Miss Mary, who loved her school,
who didn’t mean to break the silly little rule,
trudged back home with defiance in her eye
kicking every stone in her path, up high
until getting home to her lamb and play.

She tried to explain to him how it must be
and he looked up in her eyes, excitedly
and she was sure that he definitely understood each word
but she repeated herself just to make sure he heard,
then they ran around the yard….again happy and gay.

Mary now teaches at that very same school
where her lamb followed her and broke the rule
and where Mary spent hours writing on the boards
and became a great writer, winning many awards
making her school, very proud.

And now in the third seat, fourth row from the back
is a little girl named, Alexi, who has a goat named, Zack.
And she meets twice a week with Mary after school
discussing stuff about goats and some silly school rule
and Mary remembers her lamb….. and they both….. laugh out loud.

T. J. Gargano

A Time to Change

 

A Time To Change

It is with puzzled heart, I write,
poems of nothingness, so contrite,
that even I, at times, deplore;
my thinking is, to write no more.

Why do we write…. I ask of me.
I wrangle for but cannot see
or find the answer deep within,
a heart who’s smile is now a grin.

The pain of failure is like a sting.
The last poem written; no more to bring.
The words that once flowed straight and true
are now a trickle in numbers… few.

The words together on deaf ears fell.
Their clarion call…. an empty cell.
Words to reach to those of choice
now fall in sorrow… in silent voice.

Someday the words might flow again
into a poem whose origin
may entice more hearts to chance and read
and give new life to words in need.

But until then I’ll journey far
in cyberspace across the bar,
and try to find a place that’s right
above the shade of fading light.

And when I do, my heart will smile
and split into a million tile,
each of which will hold for you
a wish of love to see you through.

My wish will be, not a journey long,
but one straight forward into the throng
and settle down to set up view;
write my heart in a place that’s new.

My thanks to all of you who cared,
to you who came and you who shared
a part of you that warmed my heart
of which you’ll always be a part.

copyright © 2012 T.J. Gargano

Yank Strategy

(AP photo)

(Posada, Mgr. Torre (6), Pettitte, Jeter—4/10/02)

Yank Strategy

 
“Though the ball doesn’t look the same tonight,
you pitched okay, my son.
Posada, Jeter, let’s keep the game tight
though the ball doesn’t look the same tonight.
We’ll bring Karsay in to neutralize their mite,
protect your lead and end their run.
Though the ball doesn’t look the same tonight,
you pitched okay, my son.”

copyright © 2012 T.J. Gargano