New poems by Len Bourret

 

Trees of Leaves and Grass

 

A miracle of nature about to unfold,

a most amazing transformation of

the fetus and the egg,

one of the greatest stories told,

a procreating journey's first and

last leg,

from pregnancy to giving birth,

a chrysalis of nature and creation,

the family name not left to beg,

chromosomes and genetic traces,

a timed cycle,

a physiological event embraces,

from birth's inclusion to death's

exclusion, a fact of life.

Everyone is born one day.

Everyone will die some day.

But, with death, another miracle

is born.

And, life goes on.

A dawn of hope.

A brand-new day.

Opportunity to make one's mark,

and leave a legendary legacy.

And, yes, it is better to love,

than never to be loved at all.

Like mercy, the quality of love is

not strained.

 

 

It's Time For My Closeup, Mr. DeMille

 

I would be most honored to attend your wonderful play!

And, like Billy Bigelow, I will be on a carousel polishing

the stars, dancing on moonbeams, down on my heels

and up on my toes, singing like a songbird in soprano,

tenor and baritone, wearing ruby-red tap shoes, making

the Wizard, Judy, and June receive an SRO, standing

ovation's thunderous applause--and glittering spit-shine.

Quiting the "day job," displaying the body electric, the

timing, the beat and the rhythm--and the talent we own.

 

Good News! Yes, I'll attend your wonderful play in New

York. Yes, even on Pluto, on Jupiter and Mars. 'Cause

guess what? The pleasure is the audiences, all yours,

and all ours. Your name on the theater marquee. In the

spotlights, before the cameras, in front of the footlights,

in high-stepping shoes that Cinderella and a gay man

will fill. The curtain rises, the excitement mounts, your

face and name's made Variety. You're even on Playbill.

 

 

Polishing the Stars

 

Dedicated to Harry
and Tonto, Lenny
and Pepe.

 

At the time of grief,

one wonders: Will

I ever see my loved

one, again?

At the time of one's

own passing: Will I

remember the depth

and range of my love?

What really happens

at the time of death?

How does one feel?

What really happens

after death?

No concrete evidence,

questions, questions,

flood abstractions.

No definite answers,

nothing to hold onto,

but faith and hope.

Yet, one can turn

treasures out of

trash.

And, one can turn

the old into new.

There is a season.

A time to live.

A time to die.

But, before life is

over, a precious

traveler over time

and distance,

takes us on an

experiential and

thrilling journey.

Things change.

We change.

Life goes on.

Another chapter

of our story.

Before life's portal

door is shut.

We may not have

tomorrow, but we

can learn from

yesterday, and

make right now

a brighter, gainful

moment.

Knowing that we

never really walk

alone.

 

 

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