Posts for June 13, 2020 (page 5)

I’ll say this once;
you are not responsible 
for their happiness 

and they can not be
responsible for your own.
Be self sustaining

otherwise your heart
will be forever broken 
while you reach for

someone else’s love 

Our pasts flourish in our most present moments,
conjured by resonance and captured by now,
melding what was with what is
Beholder, wonderer, and historian of mind,
falling short of recollection
too often and never enough
Stories untold by graces of give and take,
instances rewrite memory’s splendor
It’s been months since time was defined by given names or counted by ticking hands on numbered faces 
Drifting in some expanse of mirrored realities, 
unable and unwanting to discern between now and then
Free from the clutch of constructs,
I wander in waking memories

It sounded like
such a great scheme in my head,
when my sons poo-pooed toast
and said, “Waffles instead!”

But surely I missed
an ominous sign
when the old waffle maker
was so damn hard to find.

It began with a “no” 
to the bag of Krusteaz,
from which even I 
can craft waffles that please.

“Oh no,” they both said,
“we’re not eating those,”
so soon Bisquick powder
coated both of their toes.

I watched as my seven-year-old
squished his raw egg,
and the batter flew right from his whisk
to my leg,

And I tried to ignore 
the sobering fact
that each waffle I cooked 
came out all charred and black.

A nicer mom 
probably would have said, “It’s okay,”
but that didn’t happen
in my house today.

Lesson learned, waffles burned,
all further conviction
that I really should stay
the Hell away from my kitchen.

An urge to be in it, the green space
Of peace below timothy’s field
Hidden amid bramble’s knot, an
Unseemly wilderness where the smell
Of sweet-grape overcomes the sour
Air held by the bower’s heavy cutain.
My desire drains the power language
Might summon from such a languid
Stir of limbs.  I climb a wild cherry
To view our former place of tryst,
Know it as flickers know it,
From above, from hard stems
And pressed beauty.  It’s filled
With the nerve to tell me nothing

Pa said we was gonna have a picnic,
down to the meadow, near Uncle Green’s.
Ma is bringin’ berries that Mary did pick,
and biscuits and bacon and beans. 

Brother says he will catch some fish.
Pa said, “No chance of that.”
I will bring the blanket, glass, and dish,
for girls–bonnets. For boys–a hat.

Pa hitched up the tired grey horse.
We loaded the wagon, climbed inside.
He flicked the reins, he chose his course–
to the valley did we ride.

We neared the creek, the sun at noon–
brother could not wait.
Pa brought up the wagon a bit too soon.
Brother fell, with pole and bait.

I set the blanket, the plates, the glass.
Mary–the forks, knives, and spoons.
Pa stared up as dark clouds did pass.
We all heard the cry of the loons.

Some time later, my brother did return,
carryin’ three small fish and actin’ gay.
Pa said, “I reckon that boy can learn.”
We laughed and et ’til end of day.

a darkening of the skies
escalating breeze
foliage yields loosened petals
confetti flutters the air

All MEN are created equal
Endowed with rights
To abolish happiness
Despotism their right
Repeated injuries
For opposing invasions
In circumstances of cruelty and perfidy
Answered only by repeated injury
Every act define a tyrant.

in the kayak,
I am alone
floating next to the canoe
carrying my friend and his girlfriend.

It’s blessedly quiet,

until the girlfriend begins to chatter
at me from the bow of my friend’s canoe.

Her paddle lays across her lap.

I am not really listening,

and then I just can’t hear her
because as we near some shallow rapids
the water’s volume adds her voice to its roar 
that is so loud now I can laugh unheard aloud
when my friend, who’s paddling earnestly
to avoid an approaching tangle of roots,
shouts “Mandy, paddle!”

Past rocks and roots,
the water deepens and flattens.
His words blend with the babble of water behind us,
but the scolding drifts back to me on the air.

I dip my paddle on both sides to slow down,
buoyant in my solitude.

The plant’s long spikes bear
tiny purple blooms, lush
with pollen
for the black and yellow bees
to harvest
with unrestrained zeal.
Their buzzing forms
a low, communal hum
of bliss, as if
to voice
the plant’s well being.

It’s a shifting choreography
of bee onto blossom,
the stems bobbing
in sync.
Miniature petals shaken loose,
are like amethysts coloring
the ground.
The herbal scent of sage 
feeds the air.

How about a film depicting a meeting between the leaders of India and the Soviet Union in 1947,
Where Gandhi throat-punched Stalin and made him cry?

Imagine the revelation that Al Capone had a drag queen dominatrix,
And Geraldo Rivera discovered the whips and chains in a second secret vault.

Is it possible that Marco Polo had a twin brother,
Who went in the opposite direction,
And discovered Neverneverland?

Finally, what if Abraham Lincoln slew vampires at night?
Oh, wait.
Sorry, Quentin and Oliver, you dropped the ball on that one.