Four Poems

by Kenneth Pobo



EARLY SNOWDROPS

A friend tells me that,

in January, she has already

seen snowdrops budding. 

 

Has winter gotten bored

and decided to leave early? 

I hope so.  I look bulky

 

stuffed in a parka.  Gloves

dull dexterity.  I go out

in the yard to see if we have

 

early snowdrops, early anything. 

No, I saw winter smoking

a stogie by our shed.  I didn’t wave. 

 

Heading back to the house,

can it be?, one primrose

by the front walk.  A deep

 

blue back in early April.  Today’s

sun is strong.  Winter might

just melt.

MRS. MUGRONI GREW

 

Her many glads grew in rows, 

each bulb exactly a foot

from another bulb.  Geometry

 

thrived in her garden, especially

straight lines.  Circles,

less so.  By July the glads

 

were budded and blooming,

a marching band where

the musicians all wore different

 

colored uniforms.  The music, soft

wind on petals.  I asked her why

the straight lines?  She said

 

her mother grew them that way.   

By fall, the glads were gone,

stems full of yesterday.  She’d

 

get on her knees and dig them up,

store them in her basement where

they slept until April.

SCROLLING: APRIL 9, 2025

 

I often take my phone camera

when I do my morning

garden stroll.  Flowers

 

are fleeting—I want

to remember as many

as I can.  The camera says this

 

was a Wednesday.  My dad

had died six weeks before.  I had

just finished cleaning out

 

his apartment.  An orange

fritillary reminded me of

Denmark where I saw at least

 

500 in bloom.  Three red tulips

in a container in front

of our house, a yellow hint

 

inside each bloom.  Hepaticas,

tiny and white, yet such

a deep song.  Flowering quince,

 

red against a blue sky.  I stop

scrolling, rest in what

has gone, for now.

DELAWARE RIVER

No way to make river

water rest

or give up secrets.  We’re

 

also in flux, dashing down

one road or another. 

We should stop,

 

at least for a while.

The river doesn’t stop. 

It carries history

 

and twigs.  This broken tarp

of sunlight could easily

drift away.  A river

 

is possibility.  We may

or may not stay.  Either way,

we’re moving too.




BIO: Kenneth Pobo (he/him) is a retired gay poet living in Pennsylvania. He is on Face Book and Blue Sky. He has a new chapbook out called Dindi From Yoopsconsin (Bottlecap Press) and a new book out called It's Me, Dulcet Tones (Half Inch Press). In addition to Argyle, his work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Mudfish, Nimrod, and elsewhere.

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Three Poems