Posts for June 10, 2021 (page 8)

My granddaughters stand obediently still,
at perfect shoulder height to me, while
I blow-dry their hair.  Mary first, Ella next.
Neither one of them fidgets or complains
as I draw the brush through their freshly washed,
flower-scented tangles.  Such patient endurance
surprises me.  Mary explains it, Well,
(two syllables) if we whine or wiggle too much,
mom just yanks harder.  Ella chimes in, Yeah
and then Mary has a meltdown!  I burst out
laughing.  Delighted, the girls join in.  So,

I take my time brushing, gently coaxing away
the knots, smoothing the unruly strands.
The noisy hairdryer keeps conversation
to a minimum, though it doesn’t really matter.
The give and take of grooming has its own
tender dialogue.  End result: straight, glossy
tresses and 9-year-old approval.  Hair bows
are selected by consensus, heavily relying
on Mary’s fashion sense.  Hairdos  complete,
exuberance freed, the girls bounce 
out of the room shouting Thank you!  in stereo.
The cyclone of girlish energy now spins

onward to the next area of interest.  I collect
the clutter left behind, gather in the still airborne
memory, to be carefully stored away.

Your voice crawls into my ear, burrows just behind the drum
where your words keep rhythm with my mind as it races to find the beat of anything else.

It was a dark and stormy
taco sauce

we gathered around
inside

streaks of lightning filled
the chili peppers

the atmosphere was
atmospheric

we played softball
with tomatoes

i held your hand
under my butt

we danced until the wee
little people

you kissed me on the fore- 
ground

your eyes twinkled like
stars in the daytime

it happened during the day
last night–tomorrow

What I Want for Joshua 

1 
Bruegel’s The Vice and the Virtues
is cluttered with battle carnage. Even 
the the noble seem sullied & trapped. Eleven 
engravings & in all of them I can’t 
tell the good guys from the bad, 
especially in the one titled Courage,
where warriors chase & impale 
imps & demons rather than human
foes. Showing their mettle 
they march blindly into a creepy
freestanding blob that looks like a living
stomach–no way out. It goes

2
without saying that when my cousin
Joshua saw combat in Afganistan 
it took courage but it was a blind
hard bravery that smacked
back, a long trail
of wild. He seemed fine. Everyone
so proud & complimentary. Welcome
home.  Thank you
for your service. The track 

lines were there but I didn’t
want to see them & when he began
nodding off at the Home Team Grille
during major league playoffs I figured
he was healing, needed rest, more
time. He slept with a pistol, quit 
teaching Sunday school, lost
30 pounds. It goes 
without saying it took guts for him 

to protect his unit. They 
were more family than family 
& when the IED detonated, 
obliterating two buddies, delimbing
three others, you can understand 
why he felt guilty & why
he thought he needed to double

down & reenlist. The first overdose 
caught us by surprise & naturally 
by the fourth stint in detox we’d gotten 
used to the drill. Learned to hide
the diamonds & opals, family
silver, In Bruegel’s 

4
etching, in the right hand 
corner, there’s a hint
of possible deliverance where a tall
ship on the horizon glides
away. Bruegel has made the way
difficult to see. One night

during a clean patch Joshua broke
down. Said the worst thing is being
seen as weak & to survive his Army
pals felt unbearable like dozens of rusty
nails puncturing his heart. I have no
idea how to help, no one 
seems to. I think of Bruegel
who saw little hope in this fallen
world & who pointed
to the heavenly for redemption, but even
Bruegel in his world of fiends
& hellions presented one corner
of liberation where a tall
ship slowly sailed unexpectedly off
the canvas and into a new adventure.

You’re rolling off
the tongue,
tumbling towards
the ground,

then gathering steam
with other drops;
this gravity
drags you down

down, you go
down, you flow
down beyond
my view

here, on river’s edge,
you disappear,
the last I’ll see
of you

Inspired by this site https://river-runner.samlearner.com/

Here time slows all around me, blurred
Figures circle. All that’s scheduled deferred
To the task of severing former electronic ties
Reconnecting to this new thing on which all relies
For friendship, leisure, commerce, vital facts.
Until it’s finished I cannot relax.
                                                            But first,
A pin, a password, DOB, email address—
Vital data surrendered only under duress
To link me through the ether, outstretched arms
Of electrons bounced around to farms
Of circuits, liquid lines of magic flow
To link me, rescue me from isolation
Real and digital, through this electric nation
Which I visit only rarely, surviving barely
With contacts, apps, and photos dearly
Saved to some unknown and unseen cloud.
Grasping the device to which I have endowed
Such power. It’s my passport home
To real life reset to local, not to “roam.”

Little child, that I could lift you
take you out of a past reality
and hold you in my arms with
no possibility that your brilliance,
your spirit and power could
or would ever be mismanaged,
abused or underestimated –
white hair, rose lips, your blue eyes
filled with playful joy, such 
admiration and love I have for you.

Were I able to take away all the hurt,
would you still be you? 
Would I be erasing the spark 
that fought its way to becoming
this radiant blazing woman who
carries compassion and love
in a paper cup ready to share
a splendid gulp of open handed grace
with anyone fortunate enough to
share your bold path to what is
best about being human?

by Kelly Waterbury

Go ahead,
Doubt me,
Be on the losing side of history if you want,
I’m aware what i’m doing is hard,
That a majority fail,
I’m aware that I can be hard to love,
That I may never find that special someone,
But I refuse to be told that I can’t do something,
I may lose the fight,
I may not even win the war,
But I will never be knocked out,
No matter how many fights I lose,
Or wars that end in defeat,
I’ll come back better,
To make my dreams a reality,
Just wait and see where I’ll go,
I aspire to greatness,
Nothing and no one is going to stop me

There has always been something eerie to it
like nature telling a lie:
full moon nights with the menacing clarity of instinct,
the winter sun glassy bright as a surge of fear,
foxfire shy as a figure caught out of the corner of your eye.

Even on a muggy summer night,
there’s a chill about the yellow bulb
in the corner of an air-conditioned room,
aloof as a stranger in your house.

Mingus howling, his bass rumbling in their faces, 
Yeah! Yeah, oh yeah! The insistent wailing, barking growl.
Their chains beaten loose by the savage blues, racing. 

The piano Christmas made to make Charlie’s pulsing praises
Screamed of saints, sins, and women—making preachers scowl.
And Mingus howling, his bass rumbling in their faces. 

The food frying at noon, the sun shining happy on their faces—
They pray Gabriel play his weathered brassy horn to howl,
Their chains beaten loose by the savage blues, racing.  

Don’t play in the threadbare winter without a partner for dancing,  
This music is company, this music a night sentinel while cats yowl.
Charles Mingus is howling, his bass rumbling in their faces.

They strike up his music to keep watch over their embraces,  
Hopping a saxophone plays ahhhhh, a bright golden vowel,
Their chains beaten loose by the savage blues, racing.

The dancers tear away, a flurry of silk, the black chantilly
Deep in the memories of  night and saxophone growl,
And Charles Mingus howling, his bass rumbling in their faces, 
Their chains beaten loose by the savage blues, racing.