I have two poems in the current issue of Pennsylvania’s Poetic Voices. Here are the poems:

IN THERE SOMEWHERE

Truth be told, we bought the house

because the garden

enchanted us.

It stretched for 50 yards—

taking a gentle

slope down to a creek

that had no name, but burbled

and rushed as it should,

and probably  harbored trout.

The garden was overgrown

by every weed known to man—

Strangleweed and Poison This

and Poison That

and Kudzu

that had smothered the trees.

But in this wilderness I could pick

out signs of a formal garden.

Flagstone paths and brick

beds—and even a bench or two.

And when I plunged in

I came out scratched

and bleeding from rose bush thorns.

This will be fun, we shared with a grin,

and ran off to gather the tools.

SCAMPER

It isn’t easy now,

you know.

That uphill walk

I’ve taken every

day for 40 years

has me stopping,

once or twice

to catch a breath.

And my left knee

wise cracks titanium

with every other step.

The garden

is first to greet me—

straddling the top of the hill.

it shakes its overgrown

head like a six-year-old boy

finally acknowledging

the need for a haircut.

We speak of entropy

like we imagine

scientists might—

one more disorder

like bad eyesight.

But, the walk will get no easier,

the knee no less creaky.

The garden will never return to its

well-ordered beginnings.

Nothing fixes itself.

It even affects our speech.

I imagine words

I will never need again.

The first to pop up

is “scamper.”

It’s a great word for the youngsters

I think, as I try to imagine I’m

scampering up the hill,

which has me smiling, then laughing

then coughing.