Posts for June 16, 2020 (page 3)

The lighted mirror blabs
lavish amounts 

of lacking due diligence
in the application of anti-
aging creamy concoctions

The heifer that is vanity
pierces the heart of my forty-
something feelings

Feeble confidence bobbles
on the open sea of faux pas

Is it moon or mood 
that rules the tide

Whatever

My fine fissures shall not
sink the ship

No matter what generosity
the looking glass laments in my face

the only valid point reflected

is the tale of a legend
leading to nothing
but treasure

Mirror mirror
on the wall 

You are not 
a know-it-all

i like the way my high life
splatters the concrete 
can cold to touch
i turn it back
upright
no celebrating tonight
just remembering
with each remaining sip
i raise

FROM THE OTHER SIDE

Stranded
Frustrating
Boxed in
Why me?

Snowed in
Iced in
Boxed in
Why me?

Lemons
Limes
So tart
Stinging
Binding

But God makes lemonade
Removing the sting
And the ties
And frees us..

The snow is there
To say, “Stop”.
The ice is there
To say, “STOP!”

And we
Do not recognize
God’s gift for what it is.

And God just shakes His head
And says, “Children, children,”

I painted my fireplace with a pint of Silence.
Fires of previous tenants had stained its hearth
until one of them stuffed the damper with newspapers
       inked by reporters now long dead.

A Stygian coat disguised the firebox’s permanent char,
hiding the soot and creosote that still
occasionally fall from the flue,
       burnt remains from other lives.  

Converted decades ago to gas,
a fuel line snakes across the hearth,
poised to ignite inflammable imitation logs,
       pure fiction in the empty firebox.

The room seems brighter with its past painted over
but cold without the promise of fire.

We’ve been strip-mined.
Lungs seared, seams twisted & blown,
bones shattered and strata upheaved.  

When the heavy machinery’s done
violated earth gets heaped about,
daisy and coneflower seeded.
Curious bees visit.  

Reclaimed,
a tattoo over a scar.

She makes me feel loved,
and really, what else could a guy ask for?

Those two short little buzzes signifying another message
never fail to inject me with that cuddle hormone,

someone thinks I’m important enough
to share every detail of the day with

someone values me enough
to always ask how I’m doing or feeling,

it’s intoxicating,
to be cared for.

That doesn’t ever hit you so strong
as if you go so long without it.

I don’t even remember being anything special when we met
but apparently it was everything I needed to be

because she couldn’t get enough of me then
and she still can’t get enough now.

Gratitude cannot be measured
for all the ways she makes me feel appreciated, alive,

I feel seen, like I finally matter
and she wants the best for me as I do for her.

I’ve never been so blessed before
or completed than when she’s in my arms.

It’s her birthday today and I just had to share
with the world about how beautiful she makes me feel.

She makes me feel loved
and that is the only thing I could have ever asked for.

I’ll be cactus needle caught in orange rubber
basketball rolled over asphalt into the neighbor’s fence
then stuck in the knuckle bend of your right middle finger –
twelve minutes of tweezering

I’ll be day you got so angry you shattered glass
on the backboard of our driveway basketball hoop
then I’ll be bits stuck in the bottoms of your shoes –
dug in when you step back

I’ll be each muscle twitch, curse under your breath,
if for that second the rubbing alcohol sinks in
you just look at me

they say her creative energy
                   was swallowed by  the garden    

morning after morning
    the birds called her to join them                
                    while they dug worms

she would water, deadhead, feed and prune  

survey the spread
                      of the succulents and artemesia

kiss the wild blue phlox
          the emerging lilies,
                                       dark red with chartreuse centers 

rub basil and lavender
               onto her fingers
                             inhale 

after,
        back bent
        heart full              
she could not relate to the blank page

Remember when we picked Aunt Clara up
from the mortuary? She was in a lovely, understated
box made to look like burgundy leather.

You were unsure what would be proper etiquette
for the occasion — clearly, they hadn’t covered
Transporting Personal Remains in cotillion class.

Choosing to err on the side of caution, you fixed me
with The Look, by which I understood I should offer
my place of honor in the front passenger seat.

“Aunt Clara ought to sit in front,” I said, and opened
the passenger side door. You nodded and bent
to place the box on the sun-warmed vinyl.

After a moment’s hesitation, you pulled the harness
across and buckled the box in place, checking
to make sure the lap belt was secure but not too tight.

We both went around to the other side and took
our respective seats. You started the car and drove
home, the radio tuned to the easy listening station.

I don’t believe it was polite that neither of us spoke
on the way home, but I’m certain we were both afraid
we would bust out laughing, and that would never do.

One phone call can change everything.

It’s a sunny afternoon
and the curtains dance along with the rhythmic breeze.

I place a call to you to talk about work.
And we do,
until I head down another sinuous story that “reminds me of a time when…”
and lead us down a road of confession.

You talk about growing up country.
I talk about growing up city.

You are blonde and blue
I am brown with light brown and hazel hues.

You speak of connection
as we discuss our shared disconnection–
from our surroundings
from our co-workers
from our own manifestations of what we wish to be–

and yet I’m surprised
that you opened up to me
because you seemed so
self-assured
self-righteous
self-involved–

I’m glad you shared more of you.
This phone call changed everything I thought of you,
It changed everything I thought I knew.