Author: Andy Bonjour

Poet

Depressed Lawn

Imprint of Matthias in the lawn.

I came home yesterday to find my lawn depressed
With an indent of my child, it seems to have regressed
To a time when that small infant took a nap out in the shade
Staring up at pinecones while the other kids had played.

Stepping over sweet Matthias and crashing near his head
They wheel’d their wagons, trucks and cars across his bed.
He’s in that adorably cute, but not too clingy phase
Where we can set him down and know he stays.

Unless he’s on a blanket being dragged somewhere
And that only happens once-ish, and then there
He stays while Gianna’s being punished for kid-dragging
And then changed into a diaper that’s not sagging.

All the while my oldest drives his little pickup truck
Through our basil and our peppers before he gets it stuck
caged between tomatoes, he parks against the wall
I pause conversing with a friend so that I can call

out “Hey Duncan, don’t drive into the garden.”
I take a lunch-break-look around the yard and
add “don’t kill the plants, let the bugs eat–em.,
After all, if it weren’t for us, who’d feed-em.”

All of this in a long day lunch break passed
while underneath my blanket had been cast
A grass angel image that will quickly fade
Left in recollection and poetic form relayed.

Potential-Rain Delay

It was supposed to rain, and it still may,
Not just rain, but thunderstorms and stuff.
I reasoned that I couldn’t mow today
For fear that clouds had filled enough.

I don’t want rain dripping from the sky
Leaking on me as I mow the lawn.
I’d check to see cloud after cloud go by
But ominously clouds were never gone.

I nodded with a friend who felt the same,
“You can’t mow the lawn in weather like this,
What would you do if the rain came?”
No, you have to plan your mower to miss

The down pour or else you’d have to stop,
And then put the lawnmower away.
Your half mowed lawn of weedy crop,
Looking worse than yesterday.

Why would I mow the lawn
If it wouldn’t do any good?
I’d rather have my weeds grow on
Than have my lawn misunderstood.

Count to Twelve

Let me take a moment and ignore you
Then together we’ll regroup and have a break.
If we’re talking, I can’t guarantee to
Keep on clearly counting sans mistake.

Lets allow conversations to lull
In an instance before we both delve
Into deeper conversations full
Of caffeine after I count to twelve.

Have I done Eight? ‘Cause if I’m off we
Must extend the lull a little longer.
I won’t belate for fear of weakened coffee
But I’ll scoop another scoop and make it stronger.

Digital Photo Etiquette

When digital cameras were still an idea in the womb
You could take a picture of someone and not show the room.
But that era is over, the etiquette’s made,
Right after your photos are taken, they must be played.

We’ll actively ignore my baby
Adorably smiling and kicking.
To see if you’ll stop and play me
The smiles you caught with your clicking.

I get it, but don’t understand
Why we’re leaving the physical version
So we can instead see the two inches spanned
In a digital image emersion.

Spiritual Communion

I could stare at your face forever,
In the Eucharist my pleasure
See you looking back at me with love.

Your smile is upon me
This mystery can be
All that nothing I think of.

My mind is blank inside you
Though it wanders where it’s tried to
It always wanders back upon your gaze.

I’m sanctified in mystery
From complicated history
To undisputed love where Jesus Stays.

I meditate to taste of you, and feel you in my mind upon my tongue
Swallowing the grace of you, This spiritual place anew,
With songs I never knew the angels sung.

A Classic Dinner

We’ll be having leftovers tonight.
Baked spaghetti is ready despite
All of my efforts pursuing
Something without a previewing.

I think I’d rather be thinner
Than eat more of this for dinner.
It had no problem going down
The second or third time around

But this fourth take tries my patience
In an apprehensive way.
How many variations
can we have before we say

that food’s no longer edible.
It’s time for an imaging game
“Leftovers” are no longer credible
So “Classics” could be the new name.

How much sweeter that would sound
“We’re having classics honey”
Than leftovers left around
To save a little money.

Vending Machine

I know that I’ve just been had
By the vending machine so glad
To take my money and stand there
So next time I’ll know where

I can take my dollar and shove it
in a machine that already took my two cents.
Inconveniently I love it,
Spending money on convenience.

Still, I’m paying too much
for half a bag of chips
still hanging in the clutch
of its twisty metal grips.

I feed the box more presidents
To let the chips fall where they may
But now two bags of hesitance
Will fight another day.

Ninja Abs

Something in my youth had told me
I should desire a trimmed down look.
I bought into what they sold me,
But the magic beans just never took.

Now that I’m older and somehow more mature
My stealthy washboard stomach goes unseen
And its silent ninja prowess holds allure
To those who cannot find their own machine.

Like Clark Kent undetected wearing glasses
I’m a Ninja secret man of abs of steel.
A whispered voice inside me grumbles gases
Which complements my ninja abs’ appeal.

Thank God I’ve been spared from a chiseled physique,
Saved from a tightened six pack.
Rather than holding a fizzled mystique,
I’m prepared for a silent attack.

Mall Walk

I wonder why we wander by
The People pulsing past us
Our visual aversions vie
for speech that has surpassed us

vocal chordless conversation
doesn’t lack communication
but relies on the invasion
of our vision’s simulation.

Sometimes it’s hard to think
that your a person pacing past me,
Not an extra on the brink
of a main role in my movie.

You’re someone that is capable of having a bad day
Someone facing obstacles your image can’t portray
But since our conversation lacks an audible relay
I only hear your image to see what you have to say.

Elevator Ride

Looking at the cracked plastic circle Illuminated
I wait for the large box to fall from the sky.
The logic in this circle perpetrated
With a finger’s second push I deny

That the button’s already been pushed
By the other individual waiting
To step inside and be wooshed
In the act of elevating.

I look at him and crack a smile,
then stare at the numbers descending
He’d been doing it for a while
And I find interest in pretending

I know which doors to step toward.
A ding breaks my trance to guide me
moving as a two-person horde,
A blockade with him beside me,

We move to the silvery doors.
Ready to courteously back away
If a crowd of people outpours
From the mystical box of today.

Horizontally retracting doors hold the notion,
Differing from some sliding glass doors that I’ve known,
With a stickless, StarTrek, inviting motion
We’re ushered inside to be shown

More of ourselves on reflective distorting surfaces.
The brushed metal imagery will help us keep quiet
Lest we find consorting purposes
To interrupt this silencing riot.

We both file in, him first and then me
He decides to go in and secure deep
I egg on conversation and choose to be
The button pusher and pick the first “beep.”

“Floor?” I say to which he responds nonverbally
By extending his hand and retracting it then
In a choice to avoid this hyperbole.
But I push the button again.