Dad’s Last Fishing Trip—Quatrain

Two men sat stone slope at water’s edge

Talking old ideas they once had held

Trying to fish the shade under falling bridge.

The pond in line like a planted field.

***

A quatrain is a four-line poem. This one is rhymed abab and written in a very loose iambic pentameter.

December Poem 1: Who Cares for a White Christmas?

With each drop of snow, the bough would straighten

A little closer to its former height

In short increments like the stiff back of

An old peddler who had just let down his

 

Pack. And the sun reflected like shaved glass

Off the boughs heavy with snow that broke loose

In the field of white to unwrap more green

And to fall in clumps like comets followed

 

By a tail of drifting powder. The green

Struggling to hold to life in the frozen

Desert of white. Life more beautiful and

Mysterious, the evergreens had a

 

Natural giftwrap decorated to

Rival the pale imitation held so

Proudly decapitated in my home

Rooted in piles of consumer goods.