Posts for 2020 (page 51)

Last night a hoot owl sat outside my window
Planted himself dead center in the branches of the dying oak
Said he was there to pave the way for the preacher

My grandfather, the preacher, dearly departed  
A tiny man bursting at the seams with fire and brimstone
Three piece suit, tie, hat, wrist watch, a daily lifetime ritual

Grandfather Jett, not grandpa, pawpaw or grandpap
Referred to as  ‘Brother’ or ‘Preacher’ by most
My grandmother, lovingly called  ‘Sister Jett’,

My father attended church eight times a week
Till, at 15, he graduated and caught a bus up north 
Had enough of invocations, scriptures, benedictions

Grandfather quietly arrived at the foot of my bed
Grandmother stepped in the room shortly after
They held hands decked out in their Sunday best 

He quoted a couple bible verses, sang a bit
She reminded me to stay on a righteous path
Then they took flight beside that old hoot owl

My dad never showed
Guess he elected to sit that sermon out too. 

Sunlight’s glow and the sudden wind gust

do not slow me down
tho I am blinded as I walk.
Cardinals fight more than forage
on the muddy creek bank. The wind whistles,
following the lay of the land,
without leaving tracks as I do.

Memory of a Covid-19 death makes me frown.
I will call my friend, just to talk,
and then I will place words on a page
to stand tall like thistles,
protected by needles, at home on arid land.
The words I write survive drought and heavy dew

and bloom like purple weeds come August.

that year we
all held towels
over our heads looked
neither
right nor left

let the hydrangaes go
unnoticed,
unkempt       (they knew
how to carry on – we
couldn’t)          prayed
for our babies that
they might sleep 
a full night without waking
in a fit just
because,
because they
are accustomed to seen things.

i go to sleep every night
steeped in a mighty rage.
we wake up with hope in our hearts.
praying,
calling out to ANY god who will listen
to fan the flames of change.

PGBK, 11:45, sleeve–
randomness written here and 
there on my desk (although I am
a typical perfectionist who loves
organization) causes any other
person but me to scratch her head,
and I chuckle at my models.

Mom used to (and still does) 
complain to Dad about the need
to organize his garage. His reply
boasted knowing in absolution 
where anything was (is) located if
he needed(s) it.
She scoffed(s).
He grinned(s) like the Cheshire.

One’s disorder is another’s order.

A modulus–
(“mod,” the Latin root for “manner; kind”)
a quantity (organization style) by which
two given quantities (two different styles) can be
divided (managed) to yield
the same remainders (absolute retrieval)
OR
organization = |Mom| or |-Dad|.

Bottom line…
perfectionism and/or Post-Its that is me and
Mom and Dad
all arrive at the same answer–
I love ’em.

I have no one here for me
I’m a nice person
And easy to see
I loved to cook
But now its gone stale
Sometimes it rains
Sometimes it hails

I laugh a lot
And see things funny
Don’t care for slapstick
Don’t have much money
Cannot do housework
Don’t like it sunny
I like to putter
And I do it plenty
I like a good read
Watching birds take a bath
Seeing flowers in bloom
Not think about past

But sometimes I would
Like a hug from a man
Not a ‘just friends’ kind
But one with a plan
A romp in the hay
A toss in the sheets
That would be lovely
And so very sweet

I wish I liked to garden.
I would arm myself
with shovels and spades
and tools of the trade.
I would battle bugs,
attack weeds, 
haul rocks, dig trenches,
maybe even put up fences.
I would sweat and swear,
and ignore  the pain,
and appreciate all I gained.

This time on my neck.

The nurse apologizes
for the pin prick and sting
of the needle, numbing
tender skin.  No,
I don’t feel anything sharp
There?
There?
There?

So the doc proceeds 
to slice, excavate, cauterize and stitch me up.

No pain,
just pressure, the smell of burning flesh, tugs and snips.

Beneath the surgical drape,
my vision is reduced to opaque white;
the paper crackles next to my ear.

The doc and I chat about the vacations
we’ve decided not to take, this pandemic year.

I feel both acutely aware, and disembodied.

Afterward, the doc says,
You know the drill
(for post-surgery wound care.)  Yeah.
I could write the instructions myself.
His eyes smile above his mask.  He pats
my shoulder.

And that’s that
until next time.

Notes to myself—
Check word choice & syntax
from Papa Hemingway’s SAR
for matador poem.   

Review Ariel & Daddy stuff.
Am I stripping enough veneer
off the reality?  

Lighthouses & Fear make
uncomfortable combinations
but great imagery.  

Sexton. London. Wallace. Berryman.
I shouldn’t be this comfortable in the dark.
But when I re-read them, they shake
the grip of the earth and live again.

I used to think that everyone who was creative
Had good morals
Naive, I know

My own mother, for instance 
She threw away her art, her poetry 
For a man full of vinegar,
An abuser,
Her and him both 

I used to look at other girls with tattoos and colorful hair
And think, “Wow! cool!
They must be awesome!”
Then I would talk to them
And they believed
Women shouldn’t have a choice
It sickened me
It hardened me
I soon came to believe that not everyone 
Is who you think they are

I had trust issues anyway, 
You know the abusive parents and all,
But they put on such a good show
Just like those girls
 
Poor things
Thinking they have no choice 
Their bodies belong to old white men
Who think women are just devises 
For sex and parenthood