Poetry
by
Loretta Cleary
The Jurist
We calmly sit on the Jury Panel
Thirteen citizens in all
I'm a version of Malcolm in the Middle
As we are seated in the order called
As this is the fifth time called up here
And only the first time chosen
It feels good to be one of the club
Finally, I am the worthy citizen
Now the court calls recess
We are all told to take fifteen
On return each name is numbered
I am numb for my mine is thirteen
I sit for a day and a half
Listen to the facts of the case
Force myself into work mode
Though it most likely is a waste.
At last we're in the Jury Room
Twelve jurors all talking at once
I am told to be silent and sit
To be invisible - my voice doomed
I never thought I could just be
Keeping my opinions all to myself
I was sure the twelve were all wet
In the end they were as smart as me.
Gray
Life in a gray city drags you down
all the way back to the cave.
Clouds can be pretty and fluffy and then
. . . clouds become harsh and black.
They steal the sun and it's light . . .
They make life on the street so black.
The clouds hide the sun and the moon.
They stop things from growing too soon.
They spit snow and rain, sleet and ice.
Often, the clouds aren't very nice.
Grayness . . . . . what does it mean?
It means to be colorless, ashen,
leaden, dingy and gray.
That's what the synonyms say.
Even the birds get away from the gray;
they go to the warmth of yellow and gold.
Snowbirds migrate not so much from the cold,
as from a world that is colorless, dingy and gray.
Gray isn't a color at all.
It is life's great challenge.
The Park
She's sitting in the sandbox
looking at the swing
the baby in the baby swing
toandfro-toandfro--up up UP
She's climbing on the monkey bars
to the very top.
Now she's big and sits up here
Looking at the sandbox.
Night School
Riding the subway car
and clinging to the strap,
swaying with the curves
into someone's lap.
Hanging on the holding pole
to help stay awake
or sleep standing up
as we slide and shake.
What I'd give for a seat
this late at night,
to sit and lean my head back
with my eyes closed tight.
It's dark outside - awaiting the light
the smooth light - the sunlight
that plays on the water and comes
through the trees - Oh-it's gone!
it's back again - rising and changing
from yellow to silver and sometimes gray
the light is sliding like a kid
down and over and down
it dips and stops and dips again
the water catches the light
and now it's two lights
to be without light is scary
some days it hardly appears at all
for days and days it plays the
gray somber dawn
About the Author
Loretta Cleary was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. In
the mid 70's, her husband's job transfer required a move to
Indianapolis. Loretta went back to college and graduated from
Indiana University. She is retired from Indiana Gas Company and
now spends her time writing short stories, children's stories, poetry, mysteries and various articles.
email Loretta