SUNDAY AFTERNOONS IN APRIL

Sunday Afternoons In April 

The Sunday paper is piled high in little individual 

Tents of newsprint as I discard each section when 

I am done 

Terrible news here, Society there, exotic 

Travels, food, awful movies and bank robberies 

Get Fuzzy comic strip over there but usually 

A jagged hole where I have torn it out to put on 

My refrigerator cause I love Bucky Kat so 

Even when he's mean to Satchel (especially when 

He's mean to Satchel) but that dumb dog is so 

Sweet he makes me cry sometimes.

The ice in my iced tea is melting and watering 

Down the caffeine but I love to watch the beads 

Of moisture forming on the outside of my glass 

Like tears 

On the stereo plays Amos Lee or Leonard Cohen 

P.O. D. or Vivaldi, whatever my mood 

And over there in the corner waits the computer 

The screen tuned in to Poet's Dream or 

ProphecyintheNews or homestarrunner dot com 

All sites populated by strange and wonderful 

Beings that I have never met but somehow love 

Outside, I hear the birds and the odd passing car 

Or truck and I run outside to look at all the 

Greenery and inhale the fragrance of roses and 

Honeysuckle that surrounds me like the breath of 

Heaven.

The cats look at me and yawn and go "Oh, it's only 

you!" and go back to sleep in their little cat beds 

And I envy them that they have each other and 

Don't need me, except for food and y'know.....litter. 

I wish I had somebody. It's so quiet here on 

Sundays. So peaceful. But so lonely. And the music 

And the Forums only magnify that fact 

I sigh and write a poem. Maybe eight or nine

Maybe none. I write because I need to and I 

Don't because there's nothing left to say.

Villanelle For Our Time Leonard reads in his 

Rough and tender poet's voice and my heart aches 

In time with his as I lift a rose's petal to caress 

My face, momentarily distracted from the world in 

Which I live with it's discarded bad news and 

Melting ice 

Poets should never live alone, I think and reach to 

Pick the papers off the floor. It makes us crazy. 

It makes us write incomprehensible sentences that 

Do not rhyme and will never be understood 

But such is life in April with it's storms and flowers 

And Sunday afternoons so quiet with bird song 

Such is life and yet, I dare to dream 

And wish......for more. 

©by Voo

April 23, 2006