Posts for June 7, 2020 (page 8)

Customarily, we call them imaginary friends.
Mine are metaphysical twins.

“Which one’s the boy, which one’s the girl?”
Everyone accepteda need to define gender back then.

I think I always answered “Bossie, of course” was the girl-

But I reclaim this regurgitation in my here-and-now.
Delete the obsolete misinformation.
I can’t keep straight which invisible
companion’s a little more masc,
who’s a little more femme. We
have grown decades older together and
after all they are my friends and
while in-visible, I can see both being two-souls.
Also what kind of friend am I
if those conditional lenses determine
the degrees to which I am comfortable
to acknowledge them?

I hope we keep close
another 40 years and counting. 

Each day, I watch the sun from my living room.
Light accumulates on Venetian blinds.

It’s easy to list what you cannot have:
a view of sky, a ceramic bowl, a something.

Summer is never cold enough. A/C on. 
On the table, ice doesn’t melt in my glass.

It’s interesting to think about

WRITING                                       
Somewhere                                      
between the pain                                                
and the page                                      
               there is hope.                                      

Hope that man                                      
in his humanity                                      
might learn                                      
from his mistakes                                      
might see                                      
a new horizon                                      
where peace                                      
and beauty                                      
rise up.
                                       
Somewhere                                       
between the pain                                                
and the page                                      
there is love.                                      
Love that comes                                      
bearing witness                                      
to hate                                      
love                                      
that out lives anger                                                
                     and war.                                                                            

Somewhere                                      
between the pain                                                
                        and the page                                      
there is a poet.                                      
A poet                                      
who’s heart bleeds                                     
and who’s brow                                      
is furrowed with thought                                      
and hope                                      
and love                                      
           for all of mankind.            
Tony Sexton

Black Lives Matter–what the world needs to hear.
Ev’ryone matters, but that’s not the point.
Black folks need our ears, our hearts, our minds joint.
Bless them and respect what they say and fear.

We would do well, our attentions high gear.
Acknowledge their pain. Go forward conjoint.
We can do better. We must. That’s the point.
Don’t ignore their cries. Don’t dare drop one tear.

Are we not brothers and sisters, I ask?
Love your neighbor. Defend to the end too.
Black Lives Matter. Face injustice past due.

Together we rise, we throw down our masks.
What the world could be like–all people free
bound by love alone from which need not flee.

who –

Print information about users

who are currently
–dead

print column headings
print name, line, and time
print last clock change
add user’s message

display this help and exit

information not specified
is presumed.

*** Found from the Linux Man Pages
Original text at:
https://man7.org/linux/man-pages/man1/who.1.html
Written by Joseph Arceneaux, David MacKenzie, and Michael Stone.

Pine Mountain Cemetery VI
                Edith

Slate makes poor gravestones.
Look to the left and you can see what
Rain wash does after a spell of time.

Tressie’s sisters are buried there, Ada,
Vera, Dodo, and Edith, Hensley row.
Pretty normal people Edith excepted.

A tale told how a shiny start might fool one.
Too pretty, too spoiled, to shaken by
Tressie’s early death. Something snapped.

There was a time when having the vapors
Was fashionable, this was way before that.
Nothing fashionable about her fits and starts.

Screamed for days, cried for more, then
Silence for months. Beauty could not stand
Against the acid of her anguished mind.

Married well in a brief sane year, two
Children lived, one died, Priscilla.
Never was a peaceful moment after.

Husband philandered, kids mousy dull,
Again too pretty to amount to much.
Edith’s plight hidden for years, today

A white pill cure would be all it would
Take to turn her story better. Fitting
She should be buried under failing slate.

old man substitutes
a kitchen chair for a walker
to retrieve the mail

Ornament in the trees
Bringer of wishes
Lover of plain
Pretty bird
You sound like home.

Lost in the void,
Nowhere to look,
Nothing to see,
Yet I sense so much around me,
People, books, cars,
All of them muffled,
I can’t see anything though,
I’m lost with no direction,
The world proves elusive,
So I wander this torturous void,
Trapped for eternity

she said write of me,
and
                she was immediate as music.

she said write me, write me now
and
                she was that moment when
                a guitar string breaks,
when oh! there’s no way around
but to go, go, go—
                                 and play.

delighted she,
“now i want to play
                           with you,
                                          not a copy.

not
               the breaking banjo string.
               the trilling romance of a mandolin.
               the buzzing bow on a fiddle box.”

amazed then quite wordless my reply,
i took your eyesight for mine, and
brought it to the table.

speechless,
               i loved you not knowing why,
              or even how a heart can love
              crying that it is so very sore
              and unable.