Pegasus
One evening in the dining room I saw
Dad sketch a horse upon a legal pad,
I will assume this was the time he had
Enrolled in school to study labor law.
He drew a thoroughbred without a flaw
And here I thought all art was for the mad,
But also thought none saner than my dad,
I didn’t even know that he could draw.
I don’t believe he ever drew again,
Perhaps it was his way of showing us
A horse is just a horse, not Pegasus
And plainness was the subject of his pen.
I think he would believe a horse with wings
Might be unsuited for more earthly things.
Categorical
I had a friend whose grandmother would hoard
Sears’ catalogues, and meeting her she’d ask
When you were born, then making it her task
You got one from your birth. These volumes stored
More than a taste for which the world was bored
And like a wine drawn from a moldy cask
Within your vintage you could freely bask
In being young, and when you were adored.
By thinking of the Nineteen Seventies,
Those plaids and knits, and those high-waisted pants,
I think of time no changing now supplants
And at the end of life’s declivities
I’ll fall (foretold as much, so I discern)
Onto shag carpet, laid for my return.
Robert Donohue has published his poems in journals such as: Amethyst Review, Better Than Starbucks, The Ekphrastic Review, and FreezeRay Poetry, among others. He lives on Long Island, NY.
Sparks of Calliope 