Posts for June 6, 2018 (page 6)

If Sis knew we were feeding the cats at all times of day
and never playing with them

About using the dictionary when we play Scrabble
She reads instructions and follows rules

She’d say, “Thank you for cooking vegetables!”
and that we make too much noise when we chew

About my wearing threadbare and baggy pants
Her clothes are contemporary–and fit

About my not listening to people
and walking away while others are still talking

About not being good stewards of our money
She started an IRA for her borther

About not planning a proper vacation
She organized our first trip in years

About not making neighborhood friends
Her network is international

About my writing a poem about her

Mirrors  
Trees
remind me of what I wish I were more like-
a deep rooted, far reaching provider.
Clouds
reflect what’s in my head.
Winds
brush over my skin
like I wish hurtful remarks would.
Pain
looks out your eyes
as mine is settled in my bones.
Slick shiny clear windless waters
let me see what is beneath
the surface
while reflecting
me back to me.
My mirror
images
everything
about my looks
I don’t like.

Mountain boy, blond thatch, chin dimple, 
Loved the rills and ridges, stomped
The thickest pines, drank sweet waters. 

The call that changed him, seemed
The most just thing a boy could do.
Defend his mommy, pop and crew. 

Gunneries they were and proud
Of flag, captain and each other. 
Yet, on June 6, every soul withered. 

 He fought and lived, praying now
Now not so much for victory and flag,
But to once again cross his mountain
And hear the splash of his nameless creek. 
 

Everyone introduced
spouses, or none at all.
Marriages to high school
sweethearts didn’t seem
to work out.  The subject
never came up.  A topic
forbidden.

sun
shone on the windshield

a bird poop shadow
on the dashboard

He was born on 6/30,
but it should’ve been 7/4.
His awesomeness just could not be contained.

He would’ve been special forces,
or maybe a Green Beret,
but there were things about him he refused to change.

The French Foreign Legion
was just too French for him,
and the police didn’t like his new tattoo.

The people in the suburbs,
they all need protecting,
so he knew right then what he would have to do.

He bought a rifle!
And it was black!
He slung it on his shoulder,
let it hang across his back.

He bought a t-shirt!
It was bad ass!
And he gave an icy glare
to any stranger who would pass.

If he don’t like your haircut
better keep out of his way.
He’s the baddest in the suburbs
probably the USA.

He ain’t in no party.
Can’t tell him how to think. 
He’s always listening to the radio.

The Russians might be coming 
or maybe civil war
or a zombie horde coming down the road.

He’ll protect the women’s restroom
from dubious trespassers
And he’ll squall a cry of freedom to the wind.

In case of armageddon,
break the glass and let him out.
He’ll be the sole survivor in the end.

He bought a rifle!
And it was black!
He slung it on his shoulder,
Let it hang across his back!

He bought a t-shirt!
It was bad ass!
And he stares his icy stare
at any weirdo who dares pass!

If you can’t mind your manners,
better keep out of his way.
He’s the baddest in the suburbs,
probably the USA.

I don’t like whole things.
I Frankenstein things together
to make it over the wave-top
of morning.  

At ground zero
the recurring story of
steel, dust, pitted bronze
and rusty blood.  

Somewhere under my skin
the wings itch.

dandelion seeds
reconvene atop koi pond
three wishes dispelled

Hot oil, spiked
with Sichaun pepper, bubbles
in a stainless steel pot.
Dishes of thin, fatty beef slices,
cow stomach, Tofu skin, raw fish
and the small, clear balloon
of fish bladder
are all laid out on the counter
ready for frying.
Fresh cilantro, bowls of sauces
and dry spicy herbs
comliment the feast.

A hand, holding chopsticks, dips
a blood red beef sliver
into the cauldron.  The hot oil
boils and crackles
around the meat, cooking it
in less than a minute.
A quick dredge in the herbs
and the curled and browned slice
is popped into my son’s mouth.
His comment:
Only in China
can you get Hot Pot delivered,
pot and all.

My taste buds remember
the bite of Cantonese spice
on my tongue, the adventure
of exotic flavors.  Watching
the video is close to sharing
this fondue-style meal
with my son,
but the tease of it
is hard to swallow.

It was a dark and Stormy night
when she realized it wasn’t fixable
with plastic surgery to her mind
at Stepford Wives hospital