Three Fine Poems by R. W. Stephens

 

The Park on John Street

 

A shade drenched patch.

Towering old elms,

Before the disease came:

Yellow leaves, shepherd's crook.

Just down the street from my grandma's house,

Screen windows on the porch,

Raspberry tarts in the kitchen.

 

The park is small.

A big swing set.

Pumping to reach the tops of the trees,

Jumping from the swings

Trying to fly.

And a long slide,

Try and hit the bottom running

And fly across the ground.

 

The diverse neighbourhood gathering

To play a game in the dirt:

I declare war.

Innocent of the aggression it

Emulated.

I am only eight.

 

The murmur of the stolid trees

Overlaying the naivety of children

In a small park

In a steel town

On a small river

Between Great Lakes. 

 

 

Fallen leaves

 

The leaves have turned.

The trees undressing.

Green, red, yellow and brown

Leaves fallen,

Scattered and trampled

A fine litter.

It has rained,

Not enough to wash the leaves away,

Now supple, less fragile,

Easy to sweep across the sidewalk.

The wind pushes the leaves the other way.

They wisp along, caught

On the lantana, next year's hollyhocks and spiky irises.

This autumnal mulch,

A warming blanket from now shade-less trees,

For daffodils in the middle of our winter. 

 

 

Hayward Japanese Gardens

 

The garden is still in its winter

Yet the garden is evergreen.

The rhododendrons with

Their big buds just forming.

Pines of all shapes and sizes.

The crab trees are well groomed waiting for

Their buds to come.

The koi wander in their clear green pond

Many patterns and solemn demeanour.

And the turtles sun themselves on the stones

Warm amour plates shade the cool rocks underneath.

The garden scents the air, green and clear.

The garden is cool and I bask in it.

 

I do not feel the Zen of it.

I do feel

The tranquillity

The vibrancy

The life of this place.

This garden gives me a calm

To think and wonder

Like a curious child.

There are people here and they feel as I do.

I know because as they wander through the garden

They walk in whispers.

Even the children feel the quiet and reply in their hush.

R. W. Stephens is a native of California, born in San Francisco. There was an extended sojourn to Wisconsin for university, then a return home. He raised two special needs kids as part of an interesting life. He recently started writing again with a new perspective. He is the organizer and coordinator for a small writing group based in Hayward, California.