The Blues in Four-Four Time (Poems by Ken McKeon):

The Teacup

The day’s done, but doing still,
It’s a wrap,
A mummified year,
Full of slowly wriggling final hours,

I could really use a breath, a sip,

But an orange sky is all this winter holds,
I am as terrified as ice,
Each step I take
Cracks my heart,
It’s no use wailing,

Certainly not at the end of time,
There is no bridge
For any flashing trucked up vehicle
To rush across,
To scream itself at last,
To front our finished lives with one more roll,

Useless tumbling, as arrogant as loss,
As the thought of loss,
It’s the down time, the unburnished, the dull close,

It’s then I gaze at a porcelain teacup,
Blue leaves, flowers, butterflies,

And memory stills,
Longing vanishes,

We are as perfect as spring air,
As first light on a dark stream,
As old friendship will always be,
As ever as my silent love for thee.

So Long

Blue Skies,

Now that’s a sadly happy song,

I never really sing it out loud,
I hear it though, on the inside,
Head won’t capture it,
Nor the heart,
Not completely.

The throat might,
I’ll try it there,

A scary sensation,
Unfamiliar,
Sort of clumsy,

But it is a start,
It reaches into me,
Out from me,
Almost always quietly,

It will take your voice too,

Go figure.

It’s been good to know you.

The Millenium Bluebird

A little glass bluebird sits on the sill
It’s a bulbous bird,
A stable bird,
It’s not perched up
On twiggy little claws,

It’s steady on a round flat base,

It’s quite dumb before the world.
Nearly eyeless, chirpless,
There’s nothing really to it,

But it strikes me as being alert,
Its tail, at moderate lift,
Its back, a steep upward slope,
Its cresting head fronted
By a slightly hooking beak,

Maybe it’s not
A little show of happiness at all,
Could be, on the inside,
It’s a full on falcon,
Quite ready to strike and tear
Any hapless other that it finds
At hand in its domain.

I’ll keep my eye on it,
Now that I’m on to its game,
One can’t be too careful these days.

New Year’s Visit

The late morning breakfast dishes
Have been cleared away,
And the grandsons have
Been picked up by their father,

He had intended to visit
His father’s grave,
A mile or so away,
The site’s up in the hills,
With a great view of the bay,

Takes eyes to see that,
Functioning eyes,
Correctable as tears
Do not seem to be,
Not when this close anyway,

But the two boys are even closer.
Present time, right here,

One full of chatter,
The other more thoughtful
And possessed with a
Deeply enjoyable laugh,

I hear it now,
Even in this silent room,
And as I listen inwardly
I see the three of them
In their car
And rolling on towards home.

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