Poetry |

I see it just like yesterday
With Dad behind the wheel,
Cruising over gravel roads
And how it made me feel

Destination Grandpa’s house
Sometimes uncles, too,
All of whom had farms to run
Where food and families grew

And on the way we’d pass a few
Cars and trucks and tractors,
Meandering at Sunday’s pace
No need for going faster

I’d raise my hand like Daddy did
And each of us would wave,
Acknowledging the driver
The kindness they’d repay

I loved that little gesture
And miss it where I am,
Fingers now are raised on high
And no one gives a damn

Aggression at my bumper
Anger on my right,
Police who just don’t bother
‘Cause they’ve got a bigger fight

It saddens me, I must admit
At city’s core and mine,
That basic human decency
Falls victim to the grind

Despite, I’m blessed that I was raised
To know a farmer’s code,
For when mankind wears on my soul
I seek a gravel road.

~ Leana Delle
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Number eight of fifty-two in my 2019 Sunday Poetry Challenge.

Could it, can it, must it be
Have I reached the age,
Where staying up past ten o’clock
Has marked a turning page

There must be some confusion,
Surely a mistake,
I’m the one who lived for fun
Who wrote a different fate

It wasn’t going to be like this
Sleep was for the others,
Those who kept all things routine
A life I swore would smother

I’m the girl who raised a glass
At every chance to party,
Dancing on the beach ‘til 2:00
Never safe or sorry

But now I have to come to terms
With how my days are changing,
Knees that creak and hips that burn
Memories rearranging

I often stare as youth walks by
All limitless and blind,
To just how fast it disappears
This flirting brush with time

But something else I glimpse, I see
Deep in tender eyes,
Confusion underneath it all
Searching truth for lies

My younger self lacked confidence
Though knees could bend with ease,
I’d pour a glass of bravery
Try desperately to please

Men I never should have loved
Paths that led to nowhere,
Dreams I’d dream, too scared to try
A private, loathing nightmare

Would I choose to raise once more
A glass and journey back,
I’d rather ache from head to toe
And quietly hit the sack.

~ Leana Delle
Sunday, February 24, 2019
Number seven of fifty-two in my 2019 Sunday Poetry Challenge.

Sculpture, “Kathy” by Susan Kay Johnson

Leana Delle