August 27, 2011

Good Night Irene

Good Night Irene
By John R. Greenwood
She’s a bitch
A full-throttle
Foul-mouthed
Rain-coated bitch
She hates everyone
She has no favorites
She’ll wipe the smile from your face
Coasting upward 
Only power-line sparks,
Wet cuffs,
Broken limbs, and 
Dead flashlight batteries
Make her smile
She simply 
Doesn’t care
Fox News still loves her
State Farm pencils snap under her pressure
Sand bags tickle her ankles
Oh, the National Guard?
A mere poke in her side
Round and round she goes
Where she stops?

*Hurricane Irene August 2011

This post is a sprig of gentle humor in times of quiet consternation. 
It is not meant to diminish the concern we all have for those whose lives will be affected by this catastrophic storm.

August 21, 2011

Past Due

Past Due
By John R. Greenwood


There is no wasted revolution 
that brings peace to strangers, 
light to desperation. 
Circle the granite wagons. 
Only separated will we crack and turn to ash. 
Spin the screw tight. 
Smother bigotry and hate. 
Talk is cheap when watered with 
weakness and slouched spirit. 
There remains one chance to cleanse the soul at hand. 
It is time.
Past due.

My submission for: Sunday Whirl

Doctor's Office Observations

Doctor’s Office Observations 
By John R. Greenwood
Shuffled steps of comfy velcro walking shoes eager for someplace new to go (other than down the hall for dry bologna sandwiches and peel-top puddings), enter through the heavy pretend oak door with the cool silver handle. “Let’s make an adventure of this”, soft beige right says to soft beige left. 
In the seat across the lobby, meticulous-man sits upright and soldier ready, just waiting for the call to come. “Mr. Jackson, the doctor will see you now.” His paperwork neatly packaged, alphabetically, chronologically, by size, by importance. 
Two seats north and at right angles are mother and daughter. Two-for-one perms of curly gray and grayer sit quietly, clutching suitcase size pocketbooks filled with kleenex and pill bottles. Small talk of, Did you hear about? Did you see the news? ping-pong on and on. It’s 8:45, the sun barely up. 
Perturbed youngster of 38 sits impatient with phone in hand, eyes glued to the screen as if a text from the president was overdue. 
Muffled giggles and pacing float from behind the neck-high laminate counter. Overheard conversations of day off have-to’s and vacation want-to’s take a trained ear to decipher.  
Lottery winner of exam room #3 sits in quiet repose, head slowly nodding and bobbing like a sleepy baby in a high chair. 
As I sit and contemplate how many rare diseases are spread by the ratty, cover-rumpled magazines piled high in the corner, a softened calm overtakes me and a gentle grin takes place. 


This is my submission to this week's: Poetry Pantry

August 17, 2011

War

War
By John R. Greenwood

In blue distance 
voices call

gunshots ring in darkness

her soldier boy unheard from
a sad familiar song

tears flow from reddened eye 
cries spurt from deep within
they dry in hardened anger

two lives began 
now end

August 14, 2011

Dad's Fishing Hat

Dad's Fishing Hat
By John R. Greenwood

Fishing hat, hunting hat, weekend-work-around-the-house hat, there was usually a small partridge feather or trout fly attached to the band. The hat's soft threads were stained with the remnants of Pharaoh Lake and the Cedar River Flow. Bring it close and smell the trout biting, the black-fly bug dope, and the hint of a Stony Creek buck. It was crushable and tailor-fit snug. If you held the hat to your ear you could hear a small outboard motor putt, putt, putting across an Adirondack lake in May. That hat savored miles of hardwood forest, foraging animals, and free floating ducks. It covered the head-of-the-class; my father. 


August 06, 2011