THERE'S AN APP FOR IT

Keeping up with modern technology in my advanced years is challenging, and the business of parking has been added to the list. We’re asked to use a line from a poem by Jo Hanjo in our prosery, the line being “Crucial to finding the way is this.  There is no beginning or end” Recently my son and wife took me to dinner in an artsy section of our city, where I learned a bit about apps.  My prosery is submitted  to Monday Prosery at dVerse.

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                                                    THERE’S AN APP FOR IT

My grandfather used to ride his horse to town, tie it to the hitching post in front of the general store where he “shot the breeze” with his cronies and played wicked games of checkers.  Then came the advent of parking meters---those metal sentinels with coin slots to enable us to pay for the privilege of parking.   

Recently, we pulled into a parking spot in one of the artsy sections of my city.  My daughter-in-law raised her right hand (to which her phone seemed always to be attached), and entered the number that appeared on our parking meter.  Then she entered the estimated time we intended to be parked there, and said “We’re good to go!”  No coins needed.  When I asked how that worked, her answer was, “There’s an app for it”. 

When it comes to apps, it seems crucial to finding the way is this----there is no beginning or end..   Now I admit my aging mind goes on strange journeys, so as we made our way into the restaurant I considered that now there seems to be an “app” for everything.  When I tire of this earthly veil, I wondered, and it’s time for me to pass on to the what-comes-next, will there be an app for it?  Will I be able to enter a couple of numbers on my phone and POUF! I’ll be gone?  Something to think about.

A WOMAN'S PLACE

  

Submitted to Writer's Pantry #73 at Poets & Storytellers United, June 6, 2021   A bit of reflection on how times have changed ......

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 A WOMAN’S PLACE 

 Summer lay on the land in a suffocating blanket of humidity. 

Leaves clung listlessly to their branches, scarcely moving in 

the dense air. The sun shone relentlessly on lawns so thirsty 

crunched underfoot. Even the birds seemed unable to summon

 the energy to sing. All was quiet on Maple Street, except for 

the hum ot the laboring window air conditioners. In the tidy 

Cape Cod at 1423 Maple the housewife tied on a fresh apron

 and looked out her kitchen window. Her husband would be 

home from work any time now. She poured sweet tea over the 

tall glass of ice he expected when he arrived home from work. 

 For a moment, she thought of the time before marriage when 

she was working, and the excitement of feeling useful and alive. 

 As she reminisced, she saw his car pulling into the driveway. 

 Sighing, she went to the door to greet him with a smile. It was,

 after all, 1952, and a woman’s place was in the home. 

MELLOW CELLO

    

I cannot explain this poem.  The first stanza is AAB AAB, and the second is AB AB AB.  My muse seems to have a missing link, and I’ve long since ceased trying to control it.  Submitted June 5, 2021

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THE MELLOW CELLO

LeRoy was a lonely fellow

Each night he played his cello

Its plaintive wail filled the air

Its tones were so pervasive

The sadness so persuasive

The whole street fell into despair

One night there came a knocking

A loud knocking on LeRoy's door

The visitor begged he cease and desist

And the plaintive wails be no more

"Take up your cello", the visitor said

"We hope to hear it soon

Exchange the plaintive wail

For a happy, joyful tune"

SO LONG AGO

It’s time for Meet the Bar and Linda challenges us to consider anaphoria and epiphoria in our poetry, specifically epiphoria with repetition.   Last Fall I met old friends for lunch….and we discussed the long ago. Since we met, one of the four has passed on to the What-Comes-Next, but these are my memories of the day.  Submitted June 3, 2021

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Fifty years of the long ago

we were the mavens of the 

parent-teacher group, typical 

suburban Moms being room mothers 

for our apple-cheeked children, 

working at the school festival, 

chaperoning field trips, attending ballgames, 

and keeping our little post-war prefab houses tidy.  

It was so long ago.  

That day, we tottered into the restaurant, 

much more slowly than in the long ago,

discussed our children and grandchildren,

and all the years between.  Behind glasses, 

wrinkles and canes, older and wiser, honed 

by life’s joys and sorrows, victories and defeats, 

we wondered how the years had passed 

so quickly since the long ago.  It was autumn 

in Indiana and autumn in our lives that day, but 

the sun was still shining, the air was sweet and

life was good…almost as good as it was in the long ago.  

ROSES & THORNS

 WEEKLY SCRIBBLINGS  and Magaly has suggested we use one or all of the words uncommon, unusual, uncanny.  I’ve chosen uncommon.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, June 2, 2021

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         ROSES & THORNS

Ah, how sweet the smell of roses

When love is in bud and bloom

Hearts vulnerable and open

Never expecting the thorns that loom

How insidiously the thorns intrude

Along with sticks and stones

Love falls prey to disenchantment

Leaving naught but bare, bleached bones.

Disenchantment leaves one bitter

Uncommonly guarded from dusk to dawn

And the naivete’ that was first love

Becomes, sadly, forever gone.

Beware the hapless lover

Who falls now for her charms

He’ll be paying for scars she carries

From someone else’s arms

CURIOSITY

 Quadrille  #129, and our word to consider is CURIOUS or a form thereof.  Everyone who knows me knows I suffer from terminal curiosity.  Submitted to dVerse May 31, 2021

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What makes boats float?

Why do airplanes fly?

No one is more anxious to know

Who What Where When and Why  

What makes the bumblebees buzz?

Why do lightning bugs light?

I’m curious, and I must discover     

Why do bats only fly at night?

MOONFALL

 THE SUNDAY MUSE #162, submitted May 28, 2021

MOONFALL

It appeared the moon had fallen 

Leaving the blackbird, in quite a muddle

Just himself and this other fellow

Found it in a puddle

He thought “We must tell the others

They’ll be wondering why

Like us, they’ve become accustomed

To find it in the sky”

Well, what comes next, he wondered

As he pondered with a frown

T’will be a frightful puzzle

When the sun comes falling down