Posts for June 20, 2020 (page 5)

Cool to Coquito to Croquette to Crumb

The cool-headed coolie and his ra-coon-
dog played cooncan at Coon Rapids.
Donned in coonskins, they sat under the contie 
next to a coop, with a cooper.
They spied a coot, ate a cooter,
watched a copperhead emerge from a copse,
coquet with a coquette, hidden by fronds of a coquito.  

The coolie and his ra-coon-dog jumped into a coracle,
placed a corban filled corabell
on the boat’s bottom, fished and caught a few corbinas,
congratulated each other cordially,
rowed to the bank, prepared a cornucopia,
seasoned with coriander, rolled in cornmeal,
mixed with Crenshaw, formed into croquettes.  

The two crouched at the fire, sharing crudités,
sipping wine from cruets, leisurely cruising
through the repast, leaving nary a crumb.

I dig small graves
–Each six feet deep–
to bury secrets you asked me to keep.

I bless the site and pray for their eternal rest
but as the days grow longer 
And the solstice arrives
–shining light on what we think the dirt’s heft and darkness can hide–
We remember that spirits walk among us.

My heart was so heavy
when I learned of your death
my mind spun in chaos and grief
remembering the good and special times
the years of friendship and love
seeing the roads that we had walked together
flash before me
and then came the months of your illness
sitting with you as you had chemo
listening to your fears
yet, hearing you praise God
because he walked with you
that particular road seemed too short
until I remember the pain and suffering
and I realize that my loss is your gain
you are in Heaven
healed and whole
all that is left to say is
“See you later, dear friend, I love you!”

Just try it.
Trust me. 
You’re so picky. 
How are you my daughter?
It’s macaroni. 
Isn’t that your favorite food?

Why is there dust on it?

Those are bread crumbs. 
It’s fancy restaurant macaroni after all. 

Oh.
Fine.
Liar!
What is that?
May I be excused?
I’m gonna puke!

Keep your voice down. 
It’s calamari. 

The meal that taught me
everybody lies.

Parenting and ‘kus 
Creativity abounds
when given with rules

Lord, you said
love is blind,
but that means
it still smells.

From the back porch
we know that some
are deterred and others
attracted by the pungent
perfume of defense, strength
of this seeking species.
Amorous and aromatic, our
den friends spray before
continuing to their coupling,
safe in their pursuit.

We relax,
noses wrinkled,
judgments withheld. 

To each their odor,
or so it goes.

I must have been 5 and sleeping
in a bed on the floor,

the new baby with them up above
cuddling and together,
 
me replaced.  Alone in a peed-wet bed.
I didn’t know I could move

or ask for help.  Abandoned to myself.
A child’s eternity passed.

When they realized I was wet, alone,
Get out of those wet things and come up here.

Oh, why didn’t I think of that?

I carried your sins
Sewed them into my skin, so I could remember all the wrongs
 I thought that if I took your pain and made it mine that I could heal you
But all I did was darken myself in your shadow 
I dampened my light and neither of us could shine

We are the haunted men
Standing apart we keep it all together

Hearts filled with anger. Alas!
Our thoughts when
They find us alone
Are hot and agitated
As a spark in dry grass
or memories cutting glass
And diamonds

Mass without frame, sound without noise,
Pent up force, motion without intention;

Those who are also chased
With hungry eyes, by life’s tempting vices
Consider us – if at all – as fevered
Angry souls, and
As the wounded men
The haunted men.

         She kneels beside her fire glow
         Hair blowing in the wind, there is no
         Sound but the crackle in the heat

         She boils the water in the stone
         And mixes into paste her own
         Concoction of the bitter, and the sweet

         “Get back you fiend, or you’ll be beat!”

         She puts the potion in his hand
         His agitation stirs but then
         He drinks it, a necessary feat.

         His brow bursts into sweat he finds
         His paper once again and takes to     
         writing. The magic is complete

“Hope is the thing with Feathers
Hope is the thing
Hope is
Hope is the

Avoiding the trouble that craves us
Hope is a dream that enslaves us
This is how poetry saves us
Not with a burst, but a glimmer.”

________

Hope is the thing with Feathers – Emily Dickinson

I climb Jack’s Knob

here on the page,
for it rises up
from my memories
of it.

It
sighs. Its trees
lean, growing up
as they age.

I sit on its top,
a fine point where
a hawk’s view
is 360 degrees.

The reader who sees
it is not the new
climber, but has been there
before–seen leaves drop–

felt snow on the face–
heard the far off sound
of a coon hound treeing,
calling “come see

this poetry,
tired of fleeing,
I found
in this place”.