WATCHING TV WITH DAD

He is cradling baby
in his arms.

We like iron filings
cling to his Dad-ness.

Sisters and brothers
cuddle into every side

of him
available.

Two more siblings
clutch a leg each

unwilling to
let go

this prize position.

I am curled on the back
of the sofa

about his neck
like a human scarf.

We are laughing at
MR. ED - THE TALKING HORSE.

"... a horse is a horse,  of course, of course. . ."
we all chant in unison.

Or sing the theme to
GREEN ACRES.

Doesn't matter what we
watch as long as  we

can be
part of him.

"...our dad is our dad, of course
of course..!"

Returning from the grocery store,
my only trip out in weeks,
I passed by our small town's
High School, all pandemic
deserted and shuttered now.

Slowing, I stopped my car,
taken by momentary joyfulness,
out there in bright blue Band
uniform on the football field,
a single drummer marched
all alone,

Her enthusiastic snare drum  
echoing out stirring, lonely
rhythmic staccato sounds.

This solitary stalwart drummer
practicing in the rain, rehearsing
skillful steps and robust drum
beats, until she gets the call.

Remaining ever ready when
normalcy reluctantly comes rolling
back around. Where marching bands
and football players once again tread
upon this nearly hallowed ground.

I make my bed on cold hard ground
I raise up long before first rays of dawn
It's a life I choose
I am not bound
I feel it's my way
of being sound

When I keep
my mouth zippered down
I find that my words
not going round
Causing pain on both
ends of stick
And my wounds I
don't have to lick

When upon the woods
I rail
All alone like ship on sail
I find life full of mystery
As truths are revealed to me
Give me time that's unadorned
Oak and acorn  
pine cone woods so thick
Until God blows
out my wick

"BE THY OWN PALACE..."

Seated beside her
in the pew

her doll listened intently
to the Saviour who

emerges from
the old priest's mouth

an ectoplasm of words
as He manifests before her.

"Is there a doll heaven?"
she wonders.

Her little mistress however is
bored very bored indeed

much more interested  in
a sunbeam genuflecting

before the altar
extinguishing the priest's voice.

Or the ladybird
landing on a lady's fox fur

it more jewel
than the jewel worn.

Picking her nose
as the host is

held aloft

a bird perched upon
the left shoulder of

the crucifix
the Christ a mere cypher

how the artist
fancied HIm.

The crucified man smiling at her
despite how boring the sermon is.

Sunlight becoming colour
travelling through stained glass.

Her doll nods off
falling at her feet

"Shhhhhh!" father scolds
both doll and daughter.

Doll's head broken in four
nothing inside but an emptiness

all her thoughts
evaporated.

The smile still fixed
on her porcelain face.

Incense like death
walking upon the air.

The tiny ******
of a bell.

*

“Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.”

John Donne