It is quiet now.

I cannot hear your stories anymore, how you would repeat the same one over and over once the dimentia had got you. Now you are not here to ask about the parts I have forgotten. How come you told me five times and I cannot remember?
It is quiet now, and I miss your grace, your smiling face, your eyes that inspired trust.
Do not worry, I will keep feeding Frisky while you are gone.

a worn Bible sits
snow falls on the fence posts
her smile on dark days

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Monday Random

  • I went to mail a letter in my building without looking in the mirror first.
  • Day by day, I am getting back to my normal self
  • Whatever normal is
  • Perhaps normal is what I feel like inside, without anyone else’s expectations
  • I would also try to erase some regrets, though they cannot really be forgotten, and add to our experiences, what makes us wiser
  • sadder and wiser
  • Today’s weather here is a good illustration of how I view my life right now

Continue reading “Monday Random”

their seasons

damp brow
hard work and well-
earned rest
a starling sings, and
she lifts her hands
in prayer-full stance–
the wind is shifting
and she remembers

pre-twilight
early summer blues
a man-boy’s voice, inviting
don’t forget about the love
don’t leave behind
don’t leave summer behind

evergreen
through July’s singe of grass
first raspberries tart
and sweet
red lips musing
a wipe on the back of her arm
leaves
traces of longing

what do you suppose
the clouds talk about
congregating in cirrocumulus bevy
when they see all of it–
the neck bite
the slammed door
one red apple

by August’s fireflies
he-on the road
writing sonnets on social media
bursts
from her pen
epics he will not read
reams, of
her late night daydreams

just in time
for September,she
will answer the phone
breathless
wondering why he waited
until he finished the bottle
to call
each word counted
and kept

starting his wander back
he searches for her key
in a pocket with a hole in it
knowing
it will take nearly ’til May
to speak of her again. Until

the breeze catches her scent
and he returns, to
find her once more–
his brown-haired fay
he swore was made of vapour
from the clouds
of early June

Understudy

Have I become your sofa
am I useful as your footstool
As you walk past the ants in the streets
your props

Long winter nights are hot or cold for you
the rest of us
the huddled masses
we wait for our cue to go on stage

And I–merely an understudy
from the underbelly of the populace
applaud your efforts
to keep your world–kept

Posant pour vous chéri
your antagonist–on the ready
ever steady with your lines
to fuel your justifications

Sitting at the table with you
I am no more to you
than the vegetables in your soup
if you ate me would you mourn me

Daydreaming about connections
making love like a bandit
listening to Body and Soul
on the Victrola

outside of my body
I watch us as we roll

El largo invierna acaba

Attempting to leave behind all of it
the anger and the strife
the inability to forgive–
I bathe and put on something new
I purge my body of everything toxic

How do we live as if the winter was not?
how do I go on pretending we are not bruised–
so I go, so I sear with fire,
I cauterize the wounds
so I go, so I remember
how to let go of the list of wrongs

Without letting go of the wonder, the miracle
as Spring takes over my house,
as love fills the empty heart chambers
still sore
and I weep for what is lost–this day

I tell you, this day is for weeping
for what could’ve, should’ve, and
would have been
without the despicable, with
something more noble
than good intentions

But tomorrow, tomorrow
the weeping will be put away, and
life allowed to flourish, love allowed to nourish–
tomorrow will be today, the anger swept up
and tucked away, put in the bin for the burning
the burning of the last remains of winter

Did we howl

New year moon.jpg

where did
the happy day go
that we waited for
skip it
for a full moon in season
asking for rhyme
(expecting reason)
looking up the moon
full as a fat baby
looking down at me
grinning
my hair
stuffed into a parka
your hand reaching
to keep me from slipping

the wind is changing again

all of our spring and summer
went wild with autumn
then froze solid
each tender caress replaced
with slaps and words tossed askew
seasonally mad

each private spot I showed you
in a weak moment, is
now vulnerable to windy storms
and harsh words
like a little girl eyes up
(please be kind)

it is a matter of time, before
that girl will recall her strength
close the door forever
that allowed you in, and
let inside
the wind and weather

Say you’ll never leave me

Peanut-butter and jelly on toast
and the end to all things
Lana del Rey crooning in a way
I have come to count upon

Eggs boiling–keeping simple
the kitchen taking on a balmy,
sultry, foggy feeling
on the cusp of mid-west winter

Shall we dance? Let us
make the best of it, with our
dead leaves to be raked
our car rusting up from the bottom

My sepia view of the yard
our birthdays looming, suddenly
less of a threat–doing their best
to be more of a promise

**

Ms. Del Rey

And Sir Paul on topic

altered chords

this morning
six days before Christmas
beat poetry and jazz
run through my veins
like homemade caramel

do you judge me
for how well I groove
in the middle of my pain? From
somewhere
a cornet holds the note

I don’t dig frigid weather
but there is
something cleansing
about the other extreme
of the spectrum

how my body
had melted into July
and now when I walk outside
my organs have blended
with blood and water

and a tune that keeps me
walking on

The holidays can be brutal

I.

One day after a couple argues
she, a carving novice
hacking into roast turkey
he
with a cranberry stain
in the middle of his chest

The dining room swirling before her
into a painting by Dali
hearing his voice far away
something about irony. How
he thinks it means something

As her knife falls
and clatters
she says,
‘stop talking’

II.

I am an alien
in your world

I try to add to it
giving you my best

yet

whilst my back is turned
you jam holly
into my heart