Five Poems by Michael La Bombarda

 

THOUGHTS AS FILLIP 

 

What is a greater undertaking

Than ending your own life?

 

Perhaps to surrender

To life’s uncertainties

With as much aplomb

As you can muster. 

 

 

SNOWFALL 

 

The dreaded snowstorm is upon us.

I’ve done my meagre shopping,

As I get food from the city,

Some Covid relief.

 

I’ve grabbed a cup of coffee

And a plain donut

From a coffee vendor

Near Duane Reade.

 

While sitting on a ledge

Of a building on the corner

Of my block,

I drink and eat.

 

I wish I had one large strawberry.

Then I could tell my gentle readers,

I ate a strawberry in the snow,

As it is unusual enough to report.

 

Umpteen numbers of snowflakes fall

On the unfeeling sidewalks and streets,

And the passersby, masked strangers,

Are numb with dread of all five senses. 

 

 

TEMERARIA DOMINATRIX ANIMI CUPIDITAS— CICERO 

 

Lust, the thoughtless mistress of my soul,

Has pierced my heart in memory,

Though I don’t miss the time spent

In search of love.

 

Now older, I know that was my search

For the Holy Grail,

A symbol of certainty and renewal,

Which escaped me now and then.

 

No one ever finds the truth in flesh

Of any kind, except in idyllic realms,

Though most people strongly believe

What they need to believe to get by. 

 

 

IN MEMORY OF JOEL OPPENHEIMER (1930-1988) 

 

I’m reading your collected later

And am enjoying them as much

As some of the poems of yours

You sometimes read in class.

 

I was raised a catholic.

Perhaps that’s why I don’t remember

The frankness of your poems,

Though I’m no prude.

 

When I was a student,

You seemed so much older,

And like any kid poet

I thought I could spar

 

With you in the poet ring.

I can now, but I’d rather not

Be too presumptuous,

I’d rather enjoy your work.

 

A poem is a poet thinking

And this moment

I have reserved for your example

As poet and teacher.

 

May your work last longer

Than the pure clear English

In which you wrote poems.

Sharp knives cut cleanly. 

 

 

SEVENTY-ONE YEARS OLD 

 

And still no closer

To understanding my father

Or mother,

 

Though I did catch

When younger the magic

Between them

Like any other marriage.

 

So busy about the twists

And turns of their marriage

When growing up,

I bypassed getting my own. 

 

 

Michael La Bombarda is a poet and fiction writer. He has two published books of poetry with Chez Michel Press, Steady Hands, and A Lover’s Complaint. He has been in anthologies published by the Low-Tech Press, Autonomedia, the New York Writer’s Coalition, and Run Around Press. He has published approximately 150 poems in magazines, newspapers, and newsletters.