Morning Glory Blue


Green fingers lace the weathered lattice work
In quiet desperation, weaving like
A mixed-up skein of grandma’s cat-pawed yarn,
Afraid of falling, tired of holding on,
Living for embraces only now,
Dying for a daylong kiss of light.

Is it heaven, morning glory blue?


The Big 4-0


You’d think the ‘Big 4-0’ would bring
A measure of respect –
That men would bow and ladies blush –
That’s just what you’d expect!

But friends all love to make you squirm
And watch your agonizin’.
They’re long on jokes and jabs and jeers,
But short on sympathizin’!

I, too, walked the road you’re on
And felt the bitter pain
Of corny cards and ‘crisis’ quips –
I thought I’d go insane!

So let me give some free advice,
Quite worthy of my mention:
Ignore the ridiculing gibes
And prize the fond affection!


When You Get an Itch to Go


My dad was harbored in the war
And had to miss MacArthur’s roar.

My sister went to Germany
And found how cold that it can be.

My brother went to Viet Nam,
But didn’t drop a single bomb.

My mother went to Tennessee
And wished she’d never seen a tree (not really).

But California’s more my speed –
The bestest place I ever see’d.

So when you itch to romp and roam,
Remember, there’s no place like home!


David King Rowe III


Morning grass, like supple prairie cord
Would sweep us clean with drenching dew and shine
Our tennis shoes. The path of words and weeds
Soon disappeared with winter’s vapored breath.

The sun would chase us slowly for awhile,
My shadow dancing on your bundled back.
In all that world of time, we never thought
To ask about our royal middle names.


Shell Struck


O, nameless wonder of the deep,
What ageless secrets do you keep?
Did you ever have to sleep
Upon a bed of sand?

I know you never won a race,
Considering your snailish pace,
But now you win a prize for grace
While resting on my hand.

A diver saw your shining shell
And knew that you would quickly sell
And have great mysteries to tell
To children here on land.

Six spiraled arms, a galaxy
In miniature found in the sea.
I hear you whispering to me
The secrets of the sand.


This Old House

Oh, I admit it’s looking sad,
This little piece of real estate
That I received from Mom and Dad.
I’m glad they didn’t hesitate

To help me keep it whistle clean
And landscape proud – but that was years
Ago, and now the evergreen
Is dead, and cobwebbed spiders leer

From  walls. The sagging glass has blurred,
And every nook is quite a mess.
But even so, I find the birds
Still love to sing and trim their nests

Around the place in spite of all
The fixing up I’d like to do.
(But where would be the wherewithal
I’d need to hire a fix-it crew?)

And anyway, I’m waiting for
Another house to warm my anxious heart –
A home where windows, walls and doors
Will never, ever fall apart.