Measure twice, cut once

She was my biggest fan
when I was not even sure
of my words, always failing me
to get what was inside
on the outside

I was her biggest critic
(there was a time)
when I saw only anger
my way of grieving over a life
that could not be reversed

Here I am
twenty years past
thumbing through volumes
rifling over fabric scraps
to find a pattern
to answer questions

and all I see is love
through the eyes
of the mercy of time past
how she took reams of my words
sharing them
sowing them like seeds

then dead at 56
we were out of time
and any chance to bridge gulfs
and sew seams, but I remember
how we had pie and coffee
and laughed

I wish I had been stoned

because I did not want to look into the casket
perhaps, with some help
I might not have seen her so vividly
or since, not as she was

I wish I had been as brave
as she was
holding her hand
and saying goodbye, no
she held all of us together

I saw all I could side-eye
and the guilt remains
something I could hold in my hand
not hers, cold and without pity

I wish I had been stoned, but
I had not touched the stuff
since 1985, then maybe
the colours around her
would have soothed us all

and I could put this back in the hope chest
with all the other dust

Monday Random: dog days

  • It got mighty hot in the midwest of the states, and, for me, that means near Chicago
  • Oh, I am sure it was as hot in other places before and after our heat spell broke, but I guess it was smart of them, whoever ‘them’ is, to alert the public so they keep hydrated and check on loved ones who live alone in highrises
  • Does anyone remember this tragedy in 1995?
  • Still, I don’t want to be that guy, you know the one
  • The complainer.
  • Hot enough for you? Haha

Continue reading “Monday Random: dog days”

Where’s Dad?

A sad story that broke my heart. I am challenged by ‘little learner’–one of the first I followed on WordPress–to be more transparent, when life calls for it.

little learner

I don’t know where my father rests.
With no understanding he signed a form,
And when all breath left his breast
All had vanished, his body still warm.
His parents’ house. The family car.
His favourite books. A baby spoon.
His cribbage board, the well-stocked bar.
The TV set.  His vinyl tunes.
She took the lot and sold it all
Folded the money and drove away.
Without a word, She left a pall,
Not a thought for her unwitting prey.
By the time we heard that he was gone
There was nothing for us to put flowers on.

*************************************************************************************

glopo2019button1DAY FOUR:  4 April

Write a sad poem, but one that achieves sadness through simplicity.  Try playing with the sonnet form.

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in my mirror

I didn’t plan
to dwell on death
navigating days
weeks months
trying to appear poised
but you are there
in my mirror
and it
feels unfair
to mark me

my forehead
my one difference
a birthmark
that some find ugly
but I like it best
a mark of myself
atop your Sicilian eyes
your mouth

they played games
in school
tempting death
in mirrors
late night slumber parties
chanting and reciting
always
I
in a corner
reading a book

respecting death
as something far away
that could not
touch me yet
each day
searching my mirror
for answers-
for your smile
among the living

Didn’t we die, bit by bit

4 leaf clover

(redux)

I walked around
the disease
adding up the slights
I heard talk of gangrene
waiting for that four-leaf clover
since ten
(holy shit)
that seems foolhardy

each night
something new tossed into the stew
with the carrots and red potatoes
the gravy and its
discontent
covering everything

wasn’t that sweet
following with cheesecake
and café au lait
each measured step
on rose petals
to silk bliss
the decay forgotten
for hours

Photo by Joe Papp, Wikipedia

Pre-threnody (before you go)

I don’t want anything of his when he is gone. Not a damned thing.
We didn’t talk for 20 years, and now he tells me stories. He tells me things about my mother I never knew, and I tuck them away like perfumed handkerchiefs in small drawers. I may never open them again, but they are there, preserved for posterity. Someone will want them and treasure them. Or someone careless will throw them in the trash.

Monday Random: compromise

A reprise of a Monday Random post from 2017, which applies directly to the wounds of this past weekend, real and imagined, and no, I will not explain that right now. Thank you for reading.

Are You Thrilled

  • I make my husband happy when I don’t talk during the news even if something makes me want to monologue
  • He makes me happy when he watches one of my old movies and doesn’t complain about the sound or the lame sets
  • I go to every Star Trek movie, sometimes on opening night
  • At some point he stopped saying things about my family that were sore spots
  • He went to the church I picked
  • I make pizza ten times more often than I’d ever eat it, and I learned how to make pizza crust like a New Yorker
  • I learned how to make cheesecake like a New Yorker though I could go the rest of my life without eating it
  • He’d rather the mayo not touch the cheese on a sandwich, and I respect that
  • He reads all my manuscripts and gives honest feedback
  • I’ve been going through menopause for…

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