Fighting the writing
molecular transport nil
inspirational
fog pops too late or never
bound and tethered far from near
haiku is a noun
haiku: the plural of two
thoughtful disarming
always blind finding spectrums
of loneliness here
(c) Edelweiss Meadows-Millstone
Five Lick is a little littered
with an engine block
work pants with holey knees
white ceramic canning lids
as valuable as silver dollars.
Five Lick is where rutting deer
come for the mineral salt
amid florescent butterflies
back bend of dragonflies
minnows at the crossing rock
finches in the nettle leaf.
A narrow road (in the holler
beside this stream that runs
between our Dividing Ridge
and their Ogden Ridge) floods
when unexpected rain pours
out from fully loaded buckets.
That is when I come to clip
my beard with a hatchet
and roar in an off-key tune:
ol’ dogs halt your howlings
an’ come along my grandsons
into this flow of my desire
build your pa a funeral pyre
watch my slippery dance
my stone-to-stone prance
Dear Mom,
Lately I see and hear you
in the things I do and say.
My mannerisms and laugh
the curves and curls in my letters
were partly yours first.
The way I sometimes say Oleo
instead of margarine
and icebox instead of fridge
echo your words,
just years and years later.
I know our past together was difficult.
Some would call it tumultuous
or even traumatic.
There were so many things
we both could have done differently;
so many times we could have helped
each other heal,
could have glued each other back together
holding our jagged pieces like treasures
instead of like weapons
could have turned ourselves into family night
craft projects for the yearly church bazaar
gluing and taping instead
of fighting or faking.
Instead of finding guidance at home
I watched movies
and late-night tv shows.
But I always picked the wrong characters
to emulate.
I didn’t know I was sort of broken
and that you were, too.
It’s hard to pick the hero when
you’re always on the lookout
for the all too close to you bad guy that you also
kind of love.
Red flags are easily confused for red capes
when you’re hurt
or scared
or lonely
or recovering
or all the trigger things.
I always wanted to be the person
who lived with no regrets,
made all the Hollywood ending choices
but that’s not so easy
when scripts don’t curve into our incestuous realities.
I wish I could still hold your hand,
hug you, hear your laugh.
I wish I could change our pain
and I wish you could see me heal,
for us both.
What I did as a kid in the summer: played kick ball in the cul-de-sac; rode my bicycle through the neighborhood; read Judy Blume and Norma Klein novels; played Barbie dolls; ate corn on the cob; created Gilligan Island huts by the creek; wore halter tops and cut-off denim shorts; listened to the Beatles; ran barefoot; swam in pools until the tips of my hair were green; jumped off ropes into lakes; played four-square; drove to Sea World in the back of a station wagon; watched Love Boat and Fantasy Island; ran through the woods by the creek; ate fried cheese smothered in marinara at the county fair; read biographies of Van Gogh; practiced with the marching band; crushed on boys at Camp Fitch; played Ghost in the Graveyard, Statues and Kick the Can; rode roller coasters at Cedar Point; celebrated Fourth of July on the Village Green watching parades; decorated my bicycle with crepe paper and rode the parade; caught lightning bugs in pickle jars with holes punched into the lid; shared Tiger Beat and Teen magazines with my friends; doused malt vinegar on French fries; waterskied; held vigil in my room next to the radio to catch my favorite songs to make mixed tapes; picked blackberries in my Omi’s backyard; drank 7-Up from the bottle with those red rubber stoppers with my cousins; rode row boats at my aunt’s summer cottage pond; ate hot dogs from the grill with extra ketchup; watched re-runs of Bewitched; learned to make stir-fry in a wok with my best friend; rented bicycles on Put-in-Bay; made pictures of clouds while lying on my back on the lawn; painted a rainbow on my bedroom wall.
i can look at my self now
with love and admiration
my skin is smooth and i can see clearly
my mind is sharp
i know i am beautiful
but will i be able to look at my self
when i no longer align with the world’s definition of beauty
and know i am beautiful
when my legs have freckled and veined
from years of walking in the sunshine
when my stomach stretches and sags
from motherhood and delectable food
when my eyelids fold and eyesight blurs
from a lifetime of seeing all i possibly could
when wrinkles cover my face
a roadmap of all i’ve felt and thought and loved
will i be able to see my self
and know i am beautiful?
time will tell
but i think time is on my side
When my parents were together,
over 40 years,
my mother would never remember their anniversary.
My dad would come in having worked a 10-hour shift
in the tire shop.
He’d be holding a specially chosen bouquet in his hand,
and she’d be doubly surprised.
Now that they are still legally married but not together,
she points out her anniversary on the wall calendar
a month ahead of time.
He hasn’t divorced her because he’s always been the provider
wants to be sure she’ll get the insurance pay out when he dies.
Wants there to be no questions about that.
She wants to pretend that her feelings for him are gone.
But when I tell her months after the fact
that he fell from a ladder at work and injured himself badly,
she scolds me for not having told her sooner.
I ask why, pointing out that there was nothing
she could have done to help him.
She skulks and says, “You just should have.”
what kind of grace
is this
that without
prescription glasses
we all
might see
the world
for what it is
blurry
determined
colorful
consistent
homeless
a shrine unto itself
I gaze down the buffet line looking for all my favorites.
There’s Grandmother’s deviled eggs, with four marked
for me, no pickles. Fresh sweet corn from Rachael Mae’s garden,
perfectly buttered and salted, crispy fried chicken
from the local deli. I might need an extra plate.
I see baked pineapple casserole, green beans seasoned
with ham, juicy red watermelon. But wait.
Where’s Edith’s oyster casserole? And what about
those sweet bananas covered with nuts only Louella
could make? I can’t seem to find Laura Bell’s squash casserole
or Emma’s blackberry cobbler. I miss all those things,
but I miss those sweet ladies even more.
There were nine little
germ spreaders
taking on the house;
like marauding pirates,
grabbing toy cooking tools
and shouting WEAPONS!
they lunged at each other
while moms and dads
corrected or redirected.
Some were quiet, most were not;
all were rushing, laughing, studying,
testing boundaries with preschool brains.
Naptime, and babies were gathered up;
bigger ones taken by the hand
and walked to waiting SUVs.
I saw one who had to be carried
to the car, kicking and screaming
like a stranger had snatched him.
With the last car full, I thought
it had been a great
impromptu party;
but the car was taking
my grandson’s newest friend–
it broke his fragile heart.
On an island of tender grass at the curb
he exploded into grief
that shook every window on the street.
Without shame, he unleashed a torrent of tears
and a deep soul, full of heartbreak
as he screamed after her– ELLLLLA!!
My daughter turned to me and said,
“If he was wearing his undershirt
I would have filmed it.”
