Thursday, May 3, 2018

2 Poems published in YCN, May 2018

These 2 poems appear in the May issue of Your Country Neighbor. I love the spider and flag photos that accompany them, as well as all the other poetry.  Check it out!

The Irony of Spider Webs
by Janet Sobczyk, ©2011

Sometimes I stand in wonder
at the spider web
woven overnight
between car and bush. 
I stop to examine it, 
sturdy and sticky enough
to catch the largest insects,
but dainty and sparkly, 
beautiful, symmetrical.
Could easily be ruined
by the swipe of a mean broom.

Sometimes I simply marvel
at the swift acrobatics
and skill of the small spider
who crafted this masterpiece,
and rests at the far edge
waiting for food to be snared,
then springs into action
like a small cowboy roping,
wrapping the victim in silk.
I ponder the poor fly’s plight…
it is the circle of life.

Sometimes I don’t see the web,
and walk right through it! 
It stretches beyond limits,
instantly adheres to skin.
I cringe from the shock of it,
dance around peeling strands
in sheer disgust.
The invisible silk sticks
in hair, on fingers.
Recoil in fear, just think… 
the spider might be on me!

At a Veteran’s Graveside Service 
By Janet Sobczyk ©2017 
In memory of Tom Otto of Norfolk, NE.

We step amid headstones, through parallel rows
a motorcycle honor guard in Harley vests
holds stars and stripes on long poles.

Mourners gather under a green canvas tent
with bowed heads we listen to a final blessing
carried away by the wind.

With focus downward, I notice shoes:
brown penny loafers
white shiny flats

black stilettos digging divots
blue sandals with matching toenails
tan boots with camo pants tucked in.

A yellow butterfly weaves on the breeze
amidst legs, alights on flowers
cascading over the casket.

“Taps” begins to play
but the bugle sounds tinny
I turn to see a seasoned vet in dress blues.

Holding horn to lips with white-gloved hand
he isn’t playing
it’s a recording.

When done he lowers the bugle
discreetly turns off device in its bell
and salutes.

A son of the vet takes roses off the casket
hands them to women with hugs and tears
the crowd disperses.

Car doors slam
tires crunch on gravel
as the line snakes through the gate.

At home, my red rose
stands silently in a simple vase
and wilts.