Excavating the Stairs
The icicles are melting,
Pelting our steps with each droplet.
Wet dribble splattered,
Pattered predicting repairs.
Stairs drink the water like a dry hand.
Sand in the concrete that no one sees,
Freeze and frees.
Author: Andy Bonjour
Poet
Weather Headache
Weather Headache
Some people have a trick knee.
Weather changes, and they can see
That there’s a storm brewing,
As if the weather was pursuing
This biological test
As it came in from the west.
I think I’ve been given instead,
A trick head.
The Ritual of Getting in My Car.
The Ritual of Getting in My Car.
I open my car door and find a swirl of snow
Slow mo-ing in my mind
As it floats methodically downward to my seat.
I grab the scraper and brush off the windows
Before the snow goes
Up against my pants to complete
the melting that started
when it parted with the outside of my car.
Icicles
Icicles
You’re growing like stalactites from my gutter
Fed by drips to the tips that sputter
Spittle from the rooftops
As melted snow becomes drops.
Each day you’re growing longer
And I debate if I should make you
Come down before you’re stronger
But I don’t want to break you.
Poem-a-day and tired.
Poem-a-day and tired.
Nothing else to write
It’s time to write a haiku
This will have to do.
Feed Reader
Feed Reader
I feel like my news aggregator’s
An enjoyment agitator.
Delaying my ingestion for day or two,
I must make a decision how to sort through
The things I can’t find time to read
Showing up in my newsfeed.
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Pride
Pride
Someone held up a mirror and I saw my pride.
All over my face was a defense that I’d
Prepared and had ready to go.
I stared at a steady show
Of “but”s and “if”s that I didn’t know
Existed before this reflection persisted
On showing me a token
Of a larger me that was broken.
Short Poems
Short Poems
There’s nothing wrong
With poems that are long,
But short poems sooner find their fate
In brevity that they create.
Dead Flowers
Dead Flowers
The florist section of the grocery store has exploded
And I’ve decoded this strange phenomenon to be a trap
Bridging the gap between men who had romance planned
And those who ran out for a dozen eggs. I understand
That it’s appropriate to buy flowers
But held under the powers
Of those inflated prices,
This crisis of whether or not I should buy roses plays in my head.
In a week’s time, I’m out fifty bucks and they’re dead.
BonjourPoetry 