Suburban Summer Sonnet

Suburban summer

Our Paradise

Wafting comes the mower’s comforting hum,
Assuring all is just as it should be.
Our gates and fences all are rightly plumb,
We celebrate our capability.

New curbs and gutters sluice away wild rain,
Alarms and locks protect our doors from breach,
Our lives arranged to minimize our pain,
Designed to keep us safely out of reach.

But wreaking roots upheave the sidewalk path,
And worms devour our precious woolen thread,
The black and red mold creep into our bath,
Insomnia disturbs our peace in bed.
Despite our engineering and our math,
Our paradise is something less instead.


NOTES:  Summertime has finally come to the Pacific Northwest.  It seems fitting to haul out this sonnet from last year.

Don’t get me wrong.  I appreciate material comforts and modern conveniences.  Probably even more than most of my friends and colleagues.

I was born in the middle of the last century, and started out life on a farm that was primitive, even for that time.

How primitive?  Well, we milked our own cow, raised our own chickens for eggs, butchered our own hogs, and raised our own vegetables in the garden.

For special occasions and Sunday dinners, Mother would grab one of the slower chickens, chop off her head, and fry her up.

When we sold our farm to the Amish, they took one look at the house, and commenced on an immediate upgrading and remodeling project.

As for me, I was delighted in my new home in a Missouri farm town of 12 thousand souls.  For the first time in my life I had my own room, central heat, and indoor plumbing.

I could take a bath in something that wasn’t a galvanized wash tub in the middle of the kitchen floor.  In freshly drawn water that hadn’t been previously used by other members of the family.

I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.  I didn’t even notice that we didn’t have air conditioning, even when the Missouri summer visited its triple digit heat and humidity  upon us.

So, I am thankful for many things.  I am so  thankful I can enjoy sardines from Norway and wine from France.

I am grateful for antibiotics, and the miracles of modern medicine.  I missed the polio epidemic, but just barely.  Had I been just a couple of years older, I could have suffered withered limbs or worse, like the older brothers and sisters of some of my friends who were not so fortunate.

All of my ancestors as far back as I can research were dirt farmers.  I am grateful for a professional job in a meaningful enterprise.  (Inside work.  No heavy lifting.)

Many years ago, when I moved out to Seattle, we settled in the suburbs because — even then — the city was too expensive.  We made a serendipitous choice, because our little suburb has become a highly desirable place for Microsoft employees coming here to live from all over the world.

Heck, in one of those specious magazine “Top 15” lists, our little suburb was once ranked the “Most Friendly Town in America.”

Crime is low.  Violent crime is virtually non-existent.  The weather is temperate.  People take care of their property.  Unemployment is not really an issue.  You can walk or jog without fear.

Yet, sometimes it is good to remember that even heaven on earth is not really heaven.

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Thoughtful Christmas Gift

My first haiku with an original illustration. a most wonderful gift from my thoughtful daughter-in-law
My first haiku with an original illustration. a most wonderful gift from my thoughtful daughter-in-law

This Christmas, I received a couple of poetry-related gifts.  The first was an original hand-drawn and illustrated version of a haiku I wrote.

It was done by my talented and thoughtful daughter-in-law, Sarah.  I had written this haiku last year in honor of my late father.

Now, it is I who feel honored and delighted!

This is as close as I’ve ever come to having an authentic version of an original haiku.  The old haiku masters produced total works of art, complete with beautiful hand-lettering and illustrations to complement the poignant words.

The idea for the verse came about while going through my parent’s belongings before getting their house ready to sell.  I came across my father’s old Bible.

It was so well-worn that it was literally being held together by duct tape.

My father never finished high school, and spent his life as a farmer and mechanic.  He didn’t travel, and he had no hobbies except for studying the Bible and ancient times.

He became a bit of an amateur scholar, ordering books on theology and history.  I packed up a few of books to pass along to my scholarly son, but the prized possession from the old house was that Bible.

Now, my prized new possession is this illustrated haiku.

Father’s old Bible
Held together with duct tape.
Now he’s face to face.

Dad was not just interested in history for history’s sake, or out of a mere intellectual curiosity.  He also had a deep faith.  He had seen the difference that God had made in his own father’s life and he believed in Jesus as well.  He did his best to introduce his own children to that faith.

I’ll write about my other poetry-related Christmas present in a subsequent post soon.

Happy New Year!

 

 

Flower Time

I loved you first in lilac time
I loved you first in lilac time ….

Flower Time

I saw you first in jonquil time,
When you were bathed in grace.
You sat aglow with fire sublime,
And golden shone your face.

I loved you first in lilac time.
A bloom I plucked for you.
I wrote you verse with song and rhyme.
I hoped you loved me too.

I kissed you first in tulip time,
It must have been a sign.
The buds and we were in our prime
When your two lips met mine.

I married you in daisy time
On summer’s longest day.
We traded rings and heard bells chime.
We pledged always to stay.

Too soon we’ve come to aster time.
The days are shorter now.
Would stealing some be such a crime?
We’ll make it right somehow.

Should we endure ’til wintertime,
The time when flowers sleep,
Dreams we’ll share of a gentler clime
Where we no more shall weep.