Let me write of and sympathize with
men
strong and typical
women
strong and lyrical
and children
an ode to joy forever
mostly all boxed in
twentyfour/seven/twelve
home, school,
different grades, more school
job(s) on the cusp, second job
home at night late
and yes, there is a tomorrow
mow the square  of grass
in front of the house
over and over again
years line up ahead
the same dispiriting grind
but you have a team!  Yes your team !
every season beginning  anew
playing well, job coffee breaks joys for a minute
then fading and fading and fading
out of it  till next year, for sure it will be better
and Yes, Remember to Vote for Change
then the same old the same old unchanged
and now you’re the empty nester
the silence is suddenly very loud
and there are fewer options now
where did it all go

huddles of green spikes
push and elbow to the sun
rush to flowerhood

For them a short life
Easter lambs cavort no more
dinner on Sunday

Two parentheses
above and below white space
"Liked" by many. Why?

Pensees from my mother

I lie in bed
knowing the truth
that those who come visit,
bright faced and light voiced
with words that miss,
that fail to arrive,
I do not hear.
And then to atone
they bend to bestow
a farewell kiss on my brow,
a move to make up
and blur the fact,
I know that they will live on
and I won’t.

On advice from someone
I met clandestinely
I spilled my heart out.
I was surprised at the result
Two pairs of Louboutin shoes, different sizes,
too high for office work.
One gather-me-tightly corset
strings cut in a panic and abandoned,
bras that emphasized parts too boldly
for the emergency ward
where hearts are already under stress
and thongs.
thongs are the cigarette butts of yesteryear
see once, think once, buy once, wear once
and abandon for ever,
the "I was here" icon of today
All magic memories for this heart's man
with one fault.
They are all too big to press in the family bible

Part One. The Kvetch

I am starting to wonder
about the Daily Poem:
Is love always forlorn,
never requited.
Is there an alternative to angst.
where did laughter go.
smiles that blaze like  a sun
turning  a face into an ode to joy:
are they forbidden.
poets write of *** and their lover’s bodies
mostly cold, mostly clinical.
Never feral, never lyrical.
Oy

Part Two.  It’s Spring after all, time for a change

Can the algorithm be dialed up to happy
set to silly and plainly sappy
I started this poem sad and gray
Somehow I changed to light and fey
It’s Spring after all, time for a change