Posts for June 16, 2021 (page 7)

asking to Dutch braid my hair
making pasta because I’ve the tongue of a toddler
jumping off the diving boards at the same time
fixing my shirt hem where it’s caught on my jeans
laughing at made-up words
painting my right hand nails worse than my left hand would do
getting sunburned because I didn’t rub it in well enough
talking about fostering children
yelling because the world is our enemy
curling up against my back while I watch videos at night
wearing my old earrings
seeing time rot away outside of the house
biking to the store to get kombucha in glass bottles
letting me decorate the cake
listening to sad poems from a collection fresh from the store
breathing at the same time

I dream again, twisty ride
car sliding, my sleeping foot
frantic, rooting for the brake
my children curl in the backseat

car sliding, my sleeping foot
road like a Swedish steeple
my children curl in the backseat
I am rain falling

road like a Swedish steeple
shining asphalt, bald tires
I am rain falling
cold on a golden field, ablaze

shining asphalt, bald tires
fear shackled
cold on a golden field, ablaze
I’m hiccuping: Please-God-Please

fear shackled
I dream again, twisty ride
I’m hiccuping: Please-God-Please
frantic, rooting for the brake

A feeling so intense
How’d it happen?

So painful
I can’t move

So maddening
I wrestle desires

Flesh will hurt
when it’s dying

Fruit will grow
when it’s stretched

(Court is in Recess)

Remember Hamlet extolled the virtue of sleep.
When dreaming made a lie of blissful
Rest
Quiet
Ease
Peace
Healing or
Floating without cares, troubles buried deep.

Still we uncover sad truths about our rest
Past fears and loss swim up to near consciousness,
Slough off the webs of seaweed vines binding them
And shakes us with pictures of things we did not know
Or perhaps deigned to forget in the busyness of today.

Do ye ken the chambered nautilus tale told of ever
Sealed niches of yesterday’s faults and wishes?
Which we ask is true?
Should I heed advice
From Whitman or the sainted Bard of Avon?

Since I find as age stacks up, sleep and dreams
Attack with past shreds of stories I have lived or
Wished to live, I’ll just stick with Shakespeare.

One can’t go far wrong sticking to his ancient tradition.
English teachers will always bend to that beat and position,
As our greatest, wisest, funniest genius if we but read and listen.

“We are but dust and shadows,
born to consume the fruits of the earth.” – Horace

Dreamer, when you catch your first firefly,
only let it go after
its light scorches your fingers,
and its legs bruise your hands.

Dreamer, when you walk your first daydream,
only let it go after
its fog waltzes with your mind,
and its sweetness sings you to sleep.

Dreamer, when you see your first shadow,
only let it know
that you blazed and beamed,
and that it has been a while.

The venomous spider
does not deserve to die
because of what it is,
but if it can’t promise
not to try and kill me
when our spheres draw too close,
I can’t promise it won’t meet
the bottom of my shoe.

I pray to be
The breeze you long for
On a scorching summer day
Transform uncomfortable sweat
Into a pleasurable chill
Providing reprieve
With a soft cool kiss

I want to wrap around you
Be your armor
Your blanket
The reason you close your eyes
To enjoy the rustling of the leaves
The waves of grass
Lapping against this summer scene

I want to be breathed in deeply
held
Then cascade down your figure
As you sigh with relief

Maybe I promised you something I couldn’t deliver,
driving over the roads I knew so well.  

I was 18 maybe 19 and Salem Road tunneled through the trees
all the way to the river.  

Great maples leaves and Indian cigars hung down like a bad haircut,
bangs sticking in my eyes.  

I could see parts of the sky and drove too fast curving this way and that
until the Kellogg on ramp where the marinas parked boats  

and bottles of bourbon at Annie’s joint.
Maybe I promised you I’d be better  

then a coffee cup filled with booze and fake tattoos
at 2 am, last call closing down the place  

waiting for someone to walk me to my car
waiting for someone to drive me home  

take my keys
take me.  

Stop telling me you’re fine.
You’re not.
I hear it in your voice
when every word that leaves
your lips is ten pounds
heavier than it ought to be.

Stop telling me you’re fine.
Your nail beds are ravaged.
Your knee won’t stop bouncing, 
and the rings under your
eyes are dark enough to
look like smudged makeup.

Stop telling me you’re fine.
You’ve stopped singing.
Your laundry and dishes
have piled up—each layer
tells of another day gone by.
Like the rings in a tree trunk.

Stop telling me you’re fine.
You’re not. 

Need is such a hard and heavy thing–
you can feel the weight of an abandoned 
home choked by creeper vine. You can touch
drought grass, crisp in the sun–taste
a dish wanting salt. 

What I mean to say is, there is a difference
between the baking heat of early August
and exactly how the sun feels today, peaking
benevolence over the rooflines. 

It’s been a very very very very very hard time. 

And while there is so much I still need—
deep and keen, need, that knife in the back–
for the first time in a long while I am grateful
Pandora closed that particular box
at exactly the right moment.