Posts for 2020 (page 66)

Death follows me

I do not lift my hands

conducting it

or saying it so

but it manages to stay

three feet behind me

And when I finally can stand still

finally land between four walls

it strikes

The rest of life knows

to jump in the backseat

Seatbelts, please!

Death must be dealt with

right away and always

Scrub the red-black stains

from tiles and

other nonabsorbent surfaces

Fresh paint over morbid graffiti

It’s a cover up

Sweep up the bones and

discard in the bins around back

Don’t forget to take it to the curb

on Wednesday night

to clear the wreckage and

rid the smells of my own life

decomposing around me

No fresh beginnings

with new sprouts of life worth living

Death knocks on every door

I call home

–      After Danny Boy, by Frederic Weatherly

The morning is heavy, with moisture
like tears gathering in slate skies,
mounting up to overwelling, feeling
like attempt to cool oppressive summer
heat that clings, nail and tooth
to the day’s possibilities. 

And I remember, I wonder
if I can hear the pipes,
        calling, calling…

             (The melancholy whistling
              of breath through a tunnel
              of smooth-shapen wood;
              my own personal folklore)

Somewhere, somewhen,
the laughter of children
gone silent, eyes like glass
and mystified, following
a stranger, in the streets
of Hamelin, deft fingers
dancing a row of holes
like knots in a tree, until
innocence is tucked to bed
in unseen caves.

And I wonder, did they even
hear the pipes,
                        calling,
                                    calling…

             (The melancholy whistling
              of breath through a tunnel
              of dark and lonely woods; 
              a diasporic folklore)

Somewhere else, somewhen other
passengers aboard Flight 153
enter wispy clouds, and
disappear, in folds unknown,
til decades later, in the flimsy rags
of a tabloid—reemerge
articulated and skeletal remains
in their seats.  Arms around necks,
heads upon shoulders.  Fictional
as they may be, I can see them.

And I wonder, could they
hear the pipes,
                        calling,
                                    calling…

             (The melancholy whistling
              of breath through a tunnel
              of half-forgotten woods;
              an urban folklore)

I remember—I returned
from a Europe sleeping, feeling
much the same, bones laid out
to dry, an innocence lost
in different caves, years ago,

fit for moisture, in a different
summer, different
heat and gathering rain, and

I’m older, now—I’ve left the fold
of that time, that space.  The sun
feels like it will beat the clouds
from the skies, over this deck,
over the red umbrella hanging
over the oxidized metal
of the table that supports
this laptop. 

But I feel the years
mounting, and I feel
this love, like a long-held breath, and

I wonder if this sound
I hear, calling,
                        calling,
                                     is you,

or me,
or her (it’s her.  It’s always
her) or just the pipes

             (their melancholy whistling
              that breath, that single breath,
              through a tunnel of internal woods;
              the ending, or the beginning
              of folklore) 

I’m still writing.

saw bigfoot yesterday
along 19 South
on the right
among tall green grass
and taller longleaf pines

he was eight to ten feet
dark figure emerging from the forest
my quick glance
then another
collected info

he was not real far
from a white frame house
could have been a silhouette
cut from a sheet of plywood for fun
or a sculpture
or, actually him

the image
now burns in my mind
I thought of turning around
shooting a pic for proof
but once on the road
I rarely retrace

when I was young
bigfoot was a possibility
for me
seems less likely now
with man’s intrusion
into dense forests
and mountain tops

who truly knows
of his existence?
the deer, the wildcats
that roam the deep forests
mountain lions, panthers
wolf, bear and fox —
they know the woods
scent of friend and stranger 

they’ve seen him
or not
their unbiased knowledge is pure
let’s ask them

To have a friend
is to experience the sublime, terrible state
of being known.
What could possibly be better,
or worse,
than having a person look you in the eye
and pull from your very soul
the truth of yourself.

To be awful is to be full of awe
To be terrifying is to elicit terror 
To submit to friendship is
To say nothing and
to feel nothing,
yet still they respond truthfully;
“I understand.”

Before that pushing,
hungry,
loving force,
I am not strong enough
to hold it at arm’s length.
Under a awful smile,
I am known

For two days, we quietly emerged from the periphery.
Fingers deftly speaking through the day, you were divided, but less so.
Moving free I saw your smile sent with abandon,
gladly treading in normally reserved waters. 
Your voice, sweet air filling bouyant cells to sustain my heart.
Monday comes and I return, looking up from just below

i got the moment

i lured you into taking with me;

we’re silent

cause there is nothing

we can say

that we are allowed

to tell each other.

but we are not still;

our movements

are not subtle.

and maybe that made

us realize

that we are not allowed

to be alone with each other.

Whole wheat toast with
dark roast coffee.  Let the ills
of the world diminish
from my mind like the receding
tide.  My input not required.
The day is mine to refresh,
renew, and replinish the drive
our world has drained from me.
Nothing heavy today.  Just watching
Leslie Jordan videos on Facebook
and laughing away the day.
Well $#i+!

I reach for your hand and shake it.
I express my gratitude for your maturity,
but the juvenile peeks from behind your blank stare and extends a wry smile. 
The acknowledgement startles him and he seeks makeshift cover in your dark elements;
he can’t hide. 

I ease my kung fu grip to greet your weak nature
but the blade your cuff obscures pierces my wrist.
No surprise there.
I smile as my blood drains slow;
My heart can’t pound or rattle my chest in your presence. 

I tilt my hand to stain you red.
The horror you express is enough to satisfy
but not enough to signal the rapture.

You can’t kill me.
I know you wish you could. 

I live on your farm
I live in your house
Left my deck on Hwy 62
Left my furniture, left my horses
Moved in with you & your kids
Kid you not, something I said
I’d never do

I’m most useful
As a grisly scare crow
As an occasional Paul Revere
For city folk come to your shop
Or a hand in the garden
When my back’s not out

Too old to run away
I sit at the secretary and scratch
My shoulder blade with a butter knife.
I hear a great dragon
In the ceiling above, some creature
Whose stature is more than rodent,
Bring home his prey and
Making his bed.  I pray to St. George,
Think of renting a flame thrower

In his nineties my grandfather,
dressed in a suit and tie,
would spend mornings on the veranda
of the house he had built brick by brick,
the newspaper spread before him,
prepared to confront anyone who dared 
to reach through the wrought iron fence,
painted turquoise, to pick a rose.

Afternoons, still wearing his fedora,
he would stroll alone to the café for an espresso.
On one visit in my twenties,
he made me run to the store to replace
my brazen miniskirt. On my last visit, I asked
whether he had realized all his goals in life.
Nothing had been left undone, he claimed.
Only one wish lingered that I could fulfill.

He shared his grave desire with me–not
from the head of the table before his family
or during the uproar that followed dessert
the time my mother called him a dictator,
but after winning at cards on a Sunday afternoon.
He asked me whether, when the time came,
I would arrange, at his expense, for a brass band
to play at his funeral. I could honor him with a eulogy.