Marion E. McAnear

Lemon Grove, CA, USA

With my wife, I live quietly in a small town outside San Diego, California. My main occupation is walking, reading, and writing poetry. I believe the following: The aroma and potency of a good poem is much like the seductive fragrance of a precious young rose or the essence of rare, distilled wine. Just as any piece of art, poetry is best left whole. Autopsies of beauty are the preoccupation of pedants and like-minded ghouls.

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Today, quite accidentally, I determined
That your lips are as
Delicately shaped as the bridge
Of a fine violin
Filled with sweet music.

The day before it was your soft brown eyes
That caught me up
And set my heart beating faster
As to gypsy rhythm.

Less-much less- than a week ago
Absentmindedly, I hasten to add
I noticed the incredibly beautiful
Curve of cheek-the soft fall of dark hair
(That I see yet in my dreams),
A small, pink alabaster ear
All in excellent harmony!

This it must have been
In the Garden of Eden
As God composed his First Symphony!

May Is A Month In The Middle of The Year…

May is a month in the middle of the year
May is a word most mothers hear:

Mommy, Can I go on the potty now?
Honey, May is the word, but you’re learning how.

My friend is here. Can I go out to play?
Of Course, Sweetheart, but the word is May.

Gradually the lessons take root and hold
And the learners become ever so bold.

May I go to town just with you
Then with my friend to the Dinosaur Zoo?

May I stay out till a half past eight
‘Cause, Mother, you know it’s my very first date!

May I bring home a boy I want you to know
He’s very shy but I’m sure he’ll grow!

May I wear the dress you were married in?
I’m flattered! You May! You’re just as thin!

May I bring the baby for you to sit?
That’d make me happy! I don’t mind a bit!

And to use that word just one more time,
Mom, May I hold your hand in mine?

It’s Late But Not Quite Time Yet

It’s late but not quite time yet
For the dark to dim the brain
My time has run for e’er so long
I await the start of the train.

If there is a train at all
And places within for man
I hope to have a window seat
To see as much as I can.

For there’s the age-old question mark
Are these made-up stories real?
And is there really a reward for us
Who follow those with zeal?

Or is the end a void
Scraps of life—that sort of thing?
A shirt, some shoes, a Sunday suit
And, to show my troth, a ring.