Lemons
After Raymond Carver

The next poem I write will have juicy lemons
Right at the start, wax shiny, zesty and fresh
Cutting sharp, clean through a Greek summer,
Cricket chirp chorus from spindly trees
Broken by the ice cube chink and gin-tonic fizz

The next poem will cry with the laughter of friends
Cheerful and chatting around a rustic table
Glugging Rioja into seabright glasses
Mingling with tastes of garlic and olives
And the perfume of oregano and thyme

The next poem will embrace you with an aroma
Fresh French coffee, hot and strong
A sepia spiral in a heavy cup
Conical footprints of froth to show its passing
Tracked by cognac’s golden heat

The next poem will sound like Jazz
St. Orleans melancholy blues
Gentle tones of sax and piano
Meandering through faintly cigar tasting air
And landing with a smile in your ear

Oh, the next poem will dance into the candlelit night
Conversations will deepen, and laughter, louder
No one listening, except to themselves
Such a party, a dinner, an occasion
Meaningless, to me, asleep in the chair.

*


James Dean Killed My Dad

James Dean killed my Dad
With the charisma that he had

A rebel without a cause
But did he ever pause;

To think of the effect
Of that cigarette
Dangling from his lip
And its smouldering tip

Burnt into the lung
Of the fifties’ young.

James Dean killed my Dad
The only one I ever had.

Ken Pepper