Precious

She cried during Star Wars
and he laughed at her
which made her cry more
turning to lay her cheek
against the cool glass
raindrops on the window
like diamonds

‘Isn’t it precious,’ she thought
lighting a cigarette
and hearing him cough
from across the room
but he’d never tell her to stop
crazy about her grumpy moods
in love with how she exhaled

“Maybe we should get away,” he said
getting up and walking over
kneeling at her feet, and
wrapping his arms about her legs
hearing her reply how she liked
things the way they were, and
feeling her fingers in his hair

 

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Sleeping with the television on

Did I sleep?
I remember moments
when colors flew by
kaleidoscope
and merry-go-round
and you–-smiling
that must have been a dream

our fingers
formed a web between us
and you lifted your hand
to
brush hair off my forehead–-
shivering with the notion
of one hundred nights

I trampled you
and you asked for more
assumptions. predictions. affirmations.
and a storm
of peppermint schnapps
the tip of your tongue
lazy–
saying–
come on

and I was drawing you
into every waking hour
the way I saw you
each day
a new destination
to reach that sunset
with you still seeing me–-

Monday Random: Easter Sunday

  • Good morning
  • Easter was to be a small affair, just the two of us
  • The menu was simple: chicken parmesan, garlic bread, a big salad, and my famous cheesecake for dessert
  • Saturday I had been so sick, I lay around all day, in and out of sleep. Nothing serious, just a virus that’s been around our town and finally found me
  • Hubby had been sick already 3 days
  • By Sunday a.m. we knew neither of us were going to church
  • Dinner was a maybe, the day’s fare consisting mostly of tea and toast, and diet soda
  • Somewhere mid-day while watching movies, he got hungry and I made salads. That gave us some energy to think about the delicious chicken, but that meant being on my feet
  • What’s a girl to do?
  • The cheesecake finally made it into the oven, but had to refrigerate a minimum of four hours
  • The chicken was finished cooking mid-evening, declared delicious, and gobbled up, sans bread or veg or anything else
  • Then I passed out during the next movie
  • When I woke up, I was sad that it was bedtime and he hadn’t had any Easter cheesecake. I cut him a slice and he declared one bite delicious, saving the rest for Monday
  • I opted out of that or toast or anything, laying down again and waking up to the t.v. another hour later, past midnight
  • We finally had the good sense to find our bed, then talked more into the night before we both passed out to our fever dreams
  • I dreamed about Barry White. He was hanging out with me in a black, glittery suit, a whale of a man. I said, “That suit just glitters, it really shines.”
  • He said, “You shine, in everything you do.”
  • Damn, I have an endorsement from Barry White. I woke up feeling a little better and more confident than ever to continue on the path I have chosen. What a guy.

Happy Monday! We are all still here, and glad to be. If we ever get re-married to renew our vows as we’ve discussed, I want this song to be part of it. Allbest as we start out this week together. Thanks for reading. You know,  I never take that for granted–

Jesus, you are not a building

A good Friday psalm

You are not a building.
You are not songs, millennia old.
I am yours and you are mine
and that is my joy

Please don’t let me take that for granted
Or stop thanking you–
for you are not a building
or angry mobs, but you are there

You are not this hate-filled debate
but you see it–hear it–and know
what is true–not this circular argument
that breaks our hearts

You are not my race.
You are not my gender.
You are not my house.
But my body is your temple

I beg you to open my eyes
so I see all of the truth.
Is it enough to know that I need you?
I know myself

I am no better or worse
than anyone on my screen, or
on my street, or in that building
that you are not

Monday Random: spring cleaning

  • Though starting rather late, our cleaning for spring is advancing well
  • In my defense, it is difficult to forget that the season is not still winter
snowy cropped
the weather, Palm Sunday 2019
  •  We drove to church in driving snow, the visibility poor, but we got there safely
  • This morning the sun is so bright, I cannot see, even just looking out the window. Inspiring!
  • There were a few scuffles in the parceling out of cleaning tasks, but all was peaceful by day’s end
  • Today is a grocery and baking day, hopefully with a nice corner to read in later, when I have earned it

Happy Monday! It has come again. I bid you a great one, or at least a peaceful one–oh, and did I mention I love the blues? (the music, not depression) I love them like I love a good haiku–sadness and hope in one tasty morsel. Time for coffee and breakfast!

 

 

 

Chasing butterflies

smell pink rose

every green
nourishes me
pulling me further
from the gray
fuchsia and coral
begonia and mother-of-pearl

GE

oh what a whirl
of sight
sound
and color
after paltry days of torpor
I tend to grasp at

bee in rose

so I learn here
what it means
to fill up with joy
I’m a girl
he’s a boy
chasing butterflies
across sun-dappled foliage

GE

I got behind
and catching up
is something like
grape stomping
in a swamp
getting so stuck in the
sweet muck
and no one sees it
so does it really happen
the wineclaydirt slurry
bogged. left. carnival of mud.

You (r charms)

I straighten a safety pin
from my desk caddy
trying the sharpness of the tip
against my thumb
watching with fascination
the bubbling up
of the dot of blood

Like a child I squeeze my thumb
to produce more
of the crimson minim
doming, then
dripping down my thumb
and to my desk with a splash
and still, I see your face
in the minute puddle

You and your infuriating way
of being right, always
so dear, so charming a way about
your wooing, but you know
sometimes you are so right
(for me) and I won’t tell you
because you are horrible
at taking praise

Not a painter

for my children

I.
Then.

I’ll tell you now what you want to know
only lay your head in my lap first
and I will brush my fingers through your hair
while I tell you the story of why we are
who we are and why you are who you are
born into a whirlwind, your mother
a bundle of cautions, and your father
still trying to wrap up his own childhood

I had always wanted to be a painter
or a rock-and-roll singer
someone like Janis Joplin, leaving
her heart on the floor every night
and I’d sing in the bathroom, with
a hairbrush for a microphone

II.
Now.

I wasn’t blessed with that talent
with a throat that could create a masterpiece
I’m no Kathleen Battle or Renée Fleming
I am not Billie Holiday
I am that songbird outside your window
that does not shut up when you first wake
the one that gets in the last word

Blessed with words in my mouth from day one
I’ve learned to give them away
give the world something back
that it gives to me every time I open a book
or turn on the radio
each time I sit in a concert hall
how often in the museum
do I sit down in awe

III.
Posterity.

We all are given something, and this is mine
to tell you about your Father in Heaven
though I am not worthy to truly paint Him
I have faith that I will see him when I am done here
I have a voice to express my love to you
fully and completely
and perhaps if I am really lucky
to spread some words across the land

I have gifts in hand
I must give them away

and if I am very lucky

and I pay attention to the wind
when it blows
I might just get some of them back