“Winner Takes All”, “First Light, Last Cuppa”, “From Above”, “A Hot Iowa Afternoon”, and “Taking Himself for a Bit of Exercise”
By M. F. Charles
Winner Takes All – a Haiku
Racing and dodging
red fox and rabbit run
each one for life.
First Light, Last Cuppa
Its orange pekoe aroma lingering about
like a wandering thought, standing
watching the horizon like my mood.
Muted dark grey.
Given the waiting task
I stirred slowly, delaying
a clear commitment for inaction.
The clink of my cup on the counter
one of a pair, echoes through
my empty home. Brightening
sunlight, creeps across the counters
reflecting off a bare linoleum floor.
Scents of pine and ammonia compete
with older familiar aromas.
Shadeless windows stare out
on the lone car at the curb.
An extra pull on the stubborn front door
then the crying creak of the unbalanced
glider, a coat slung casually beside me
a sighing wind through the trees
added to an especially cheerless morning.
Grass trimmed, our flower beds weeded,
the moving van now gone, time to go.
A glance back, only one.
From Above – a Cinquain
Acorns
downed by a breeze
lay cloaked in the fall grass
spied by squirrels for winter supplies,
manna.
On A Hot Iowa Afternoon
Lichen-barked matured maples,
home to squirrels with fluffed russet tails
and red-eyed vireos once lined our gravel lane.
Leaves had brushed is sighing sounds
their branches entwined,
spanning the gaps of this colonnade.
Emerald grasses, drooping heads full,
and wild dandelions, rose from between
parallel grooved tracks left by family traffic.
I walk alone, boots muddied, my path
staggering around scattered puddles,
random reservoirs in a landscape newly sculpted.
My ears echo from the storm’s rumbling might
stampeding thunder heads havocking,
my serene haven.
Green shoots and yellow-crowned stalks
laid over testify to the direction
of a twisting natural power.
Snapped limbs, felled trunks
lay piled in a confused triage
of the storm’s victims.
Crushed nests and aeries,
once noisy penthouses, silently
mourn the hastily evicted.
A weary survivor stands bathed
in the slanting evening glow.
Moved by a gasp of wind,
its leaf shadows, like phantom
hands, caress the bones
of lost companions.
Taking Himself for a Bit of Exercise
The swinging tap, scrape, tap of his cane skippered him along,
the familiar scent of lilac followed him as he made his way
on the bordered path. He walked jauntily,
well, as jauntily as he could, on the arboretum’s boulevard.
A small brown satchel slung over his shoulder carried essentials
a cool drink, cookies, his cell phone, and a whistle.
A partly cloudy day alternated hot open sky with patches of coolness
under passing sheets of clouds. As his cane told him the path
diverged, he decided on a fresh experience,
taking the one he had not traveled, as Robert Frost had counseled.
An open space allowed a burst of ambrosial air to hush past.
He turned into the breeze for a deep breath.
A friendly inquiry guided him to a path-side bench.
His cane leaning between his knees, arm perched on the bench’s back,
he could feel the linear fibers of its wood.
Taking his leisure, a small turn of his head let his ear track the outraged call
of a cranky red-wing blackbird protesting an invasion of its territory.
His stroll snack today, a couple of peanut butter cookies.
He loved the kind made with Chunky Jiff. They had more character
than the plain ones. A sweet, crunchy snack washed down with cool water
from an old squat thermos was enough to fuel his journey home.
He’d seen enough for today.
M. F. Charles, Lives in Waverly, Iowa. Retired, He reads/writes poetry, gardens, and volunteers via community service. For him, a poem provides a chance to produce an affect in his reader. He has been published in Duck Head Journal, Last Leaves Poetry Journal, Last Stanza Magazine, and a few others.
