lisawalsh; a-mused & inspired

Sonnet: My Dad the Soldier

The brave man that he was
saw war before he was old enough to kiss a girl,
slept in the bitter cold of Korea
then went on to serve his country
wearing a badge and a blue suit.
Used alcohol to settle his nerves & the score,
sang after dinner like any good irishman would —
songs like “Jack the Knife” and “Danny Boy” and
my favorite “Fly me to the moon”;
and held all the sadness of war in,
rarely speaking of the dead or the killing,
way before he died being
the best dad a girl
could ever have.

—lw

The rain usurped the moonvine from opening.

8 giant blooms melted into white blobs on

what should have been a coming out party of sorts.

Party dresses, pony-tails, paper cups w/ lemonade.

Instead, school-buses over

shiny streets, wet with 1st day jitters, half closed lids,

sleepy heads bobbing from side to side,

and giant green heart-shaped

leaves quietly disappointed.

-lw

Fluted funnels growed  big as my hand

and white as a bride’s hankie in the moonlight.

Found crumpled in a ball under a chair, the day

after the wedding.

As if held tight in her fist and

Moist with the tears of marriage

I spent time w/ the morning glories today,
their petals purple and pink, heart shaped leaves
encompassing me.
We reflected on the wind and the rain and it’s power and fury,
and what it had done to whole neighborhoods,
the memories of children
and old people for years to come, big trees
down, schools closed..
We discussed the state of the cleomes, how lovely they’ve grown(!)
and the agastache and hydrangeas,
flowers pink from coffee grinds and sun.
A light rain fell into my coffee,
a mixture of morning and sky,
and my dad was there,
and grandma too,
their ashes in the soil, somewhere
far off,
but their wishes in my heart
and head,
close by.
—lw

We move into fall as

easily as we move from one room

to the next,

barely noticing the bits

of frost on the morning glories,

or curled edges of the cleomes,

or how cold the dew is on

our naked toes

in the wee hours of

the garden

—lw

Sweet Ole Daddy Blues

He were alive just 
one month ago in 
voice and skin spotted with
age and soft.

In eyeglasses 
and wristwatch, and 
small neat hands to grab you in hello. 
In flag pin worn in his lapel. 
In teeth resting in a cup next to the bed, 
in full head of sliver hair, in unshaven whiskers on his 
chinny chin chin.

In the weary look on his face, 
and his watery blue eyes; his partched lips 
drinking from a straw, or sucking on ice chips. 
In his laugh, and a kiss 
from his sweet ole daddy lips. 

—lw - — written 9/6/09…

Photo, 1969.  My two best guys. Me just learning to be cool…