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don-bouchardPoems
Light Shows Wafting up this hill From the town below The fetid air this morning, Whispers sleepily. We sat here with a crowd Last night, anticipating The finale of the Fourth of July, Expecting colored fire And fierceness in the sky To erupt above the lake As a flotilla of boats, White and green and red markers glowing Took their bobbing places Too far from us to see expectant faces. The morning grass lies matted, Littered with bits of celebration: Candy wrappers, Bottle caps, Crushed cans... Only the motorcycle and I Overlook the restless trees and water Uncertain in the morning breeze below.... The fireworks this year amazed us all, Arcs and constellations Shattering the air Drifting off to die in smoking trails, Whistling curlicues, Weeping-willow shreds of gold, Strings of blue and white and red, Cacophonies of power, Echoing and echoing again. And yet, again, God won the show... Sent a humble lightning bug To fly across my grandson's path And captured, captivated his attention. While thundering explosions pinwheeled overhead, An insect blinked his tail, Walked up young Parker's arm, Disarmed the bombing of the sky, Attached a young boy's quick affection, Earned the title, "Sparky," And hitchhiked home To be released alive and well On my front lawn.
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Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
Fourth of July Firefly
Light Shows Wafting up this hill From the town below The fetid air this morning, Whispers sleepily. We sat here with a crowd Last night, anticipating The finale of the Fourth of July, Expecting colored fire And fierceness in the sky To erupt above the lake As a flotilla of boats, White and green and red markers glowing Took their bobbing places Too far from us to see expectant faces. The morning grass lies matted, Littered with bits of celebration: Candy wrappers, Bottle caps, Crushed cans... Only the motorcycle and I Overlook the restless trees and water Uncertain in the morning breeze below.... The fireworks this year amazed us all, Arcs and constellations Shattering the air Drifting off to die in smoking trails, Whistling curlicues, Weeping-willow shreds of gold, Strings of blue and white and red, Cacophonies of power, Echoing and echoing again. And yet, again, God won the show... Sent a humble lightning bug To fly across my grandson's path And captured, captivated his attention. While thundering explosions pinwheeled overhead, An insect blinked his tail, Walked up young Parker's arm, Disarmed the bombing of the sky, Attached a young boy's quick affection, Earned the title, "Sparky," And hitchhiked home To be released alive and well On my front lawn.
don-bouchard
Written by
don-bouchard
66/M/American
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
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