Bob McAfee is a retired software consultant who lives with his wife near Boston. He has written nine books of poetry, mostly on Love, Aging, and the Natural World. For the last several years he has hosted a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop. Since 2019, he has had 141 poems selected by 57 different publications. Two poems nominated for Best of the Net. His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poetry.
Quiet Is
the doe hidden in tall grass,
the lion stalking by upwind;
the January bear dreaming of salmon,
his belly anticipating the Spring spawn;
the winds mellowing in the hurricane’s eye,
the seagulls flailing to hold the attic of the sky;
the trees talking at midnight, willows whispering
prophecies as the moon slides behind the tamarack;
the city settling in after the bars have closed,
the early morning garbage trucks still sleeping;
the tom cat trying to make it home
through suburban coyotes howling in pantomime;
the patrol car parked behind the Piggly Wiggly,
the cop nursing his empty coffee cup;
a man, lying catty-cornered on his king-sized bed,
alone in perfect isolation.
My Mother’s Hair
She lies in a hospice bed,
her hair spilled out around her head,
longer than I ever remembered, so white
it looks blue in the afternoon sunlight
pouring through the windows, glistening.
My daughter applies a damp sponge
to the cracked lips and tongue,
raises the head so the lush
hair leaps to the waiting brush,
relates all the day’s events
in a voice of great intensity,
just in case Mom is listening.
After a while, my grand-daughter, a nurse,
takes over, expertly pulls and smooths,
every stroke well-practiced and rehearsed;
this is not the first dying woman she has soothed.
My mother went to the beauty salon each week,
her hair a sea of lacquered wave and frozen curl,
but now it looks so soft along her cheeks
I could bury my young boy’s face in its carefree swirl.
My great-granddaughter, age four,
as though death is commonplace,
leans to kiss my mother’s face
with deep concern.
I lean toward the bed and hear soft singing, a lullaby,
and I resist the urge to cry
as I await my turn.
