The Porch

 .
As I have mentioned before my nightly meditations sometimes stray beyond a search for a Zen-like tranquility. When life's irritations are too insistent sometimes it becomes necessary "to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them."  Hence: 

The Porch.

The porch
Of the house 
Where I was mostly raised 
Is rather small.
Drive-bys, real and virtual
Confirm this fact.

Yet in my memory
It was quite large.
A world apart
Screened by shrubbery.
At night in particular,
It was a magic place
Bathed in the warm glow
Of those yellow "bug lights"
Now largely gone,
Replaced with harsh 
Fluorescent spirals,
Sacrificed, like smoke-tinged autumn,
To keep the planet safe
And sterile.

But in memory
The porch floated serene 
On their golden halo.
Serene and apart as rain 
Drummed down all round.

I believe,
But cannot be certain,
That it is the porch
Of my current meditation
Backed by a gentle track
Called "Soft Forest Rain:"

I stand on guard,
A lad of maybe six,
Dressed in imaginative pajamas.
Firetrucks? Cowboys?
The particulars shift.
But always armed with 
The proverbial new broom.

Cantankerous colleagues
Divisive kin
Old Regrets
Long-departed
Lovers and antagonists 
Charge up the front steps
Like animated tennis balls
Demanding satisfaction.

"Get off! Get off my porch!"
I command,
And swing my mighty broom.
My aim is true
And the invading irritants
Carom back down the stairs,
Now a roaring cascade,
And are swept out
Along the sidewalk
To the street
To the gutters, and away.
Their carping accusations
Fade and blend 
With the chirping of crickets
Leaving me alone,
Safe once more with the drumming 
Of the rain.
.