Posts for June 24, 2021 (page 6)

There’s no toe hold 
        for normal
just slippage and leakage
     and bodily drainage

There is at Indian Stairway
a passage to Frog’s Head
   etched out by hands 
  for feet to climb the vertical wall

I went there with a lover
     once
and spent the night howling
up into the Bell Dome
and making love in
  the sandy dirt
  of eroding stone

In the morning, seeping
 blisters and calluses 
 and calcified bug bites
we’re the memories we
we’re taking home with us
until she found an
    arrowhead under her head

Blank page, deadened mind.
Worry, fret, dread, and doubt.
Write a line, scratch it out.
Write another, never mind.  

Try again, one more time.
It’s useless now, just give it up.
Anyway, it’s time to walk the pup.
Maybe I’ll write just one last line.  

That’s it now, I’m doing fine.
In the flurry and the flow,
setting down words row by row.
Life is happening line by line.  

if you admitted that actually,
some babies are ugly, if you admitted
you once called in sick at work saying
your dog had broke its leg when it hadn’t,
or that you secretly wished for a disorder
so you’d have an excuse for the way you act.

I wouldn’t think any less of you
if you told me you were growing a little
pretentious about butter after watching
a Youtube video of this old French
place and its old French butter-making ways
which seemed mesmerizing and romantic.

I wouldn’t think any less of you
if you said you couldn’t respect your alcoholic
cousin, or if you said you don’t think
you loved her anymore but you visit anyway
to spend time with her arthritic border collie
and to make your uncle happy.

I wouldn’t think any less of you
if you stole from Walmart and refused
to use their self-checkout because
you’re not going to provide free labor
to increase their profits when they  
won’t pay their employees a living wage.

I wouldn’t think any less of you
if you wished you were queer because men
can be so scary, that you’re tired
of calculating which seem to be humans,
and which monsters, while you’re out
looking for someone to love.

I wouldn’t think any less of you
if you were near phobic of herringbone,
or that when that certain county song
comes on over the ceiling speakers,
you walk out of the restaurant or grocery
store to wait until it’s over.

I wouldn’t think any less of you
if you said you weren’t afraid to die,
that the idea of quietly sleeping in the dirt
wrapped in a quilt your momma made
is an alright end to your story, that you don’t really
expect you’ll miss anyone, not even me.

When shards of strife
roar like a hurricane
in the brain

pause to embrace
the sound
of a butterfly race.

-Sue Neufarth Howard

They are erupting now, all
over town, their upright limbs loving        
the southern summer sun.  Thick
bunches of blooms burst
from yards, rise from medians, crane
over fences, brave the planted plots
of fast food joints even, plunked
between the asphalt and the exhaust.  

Their names!  I want to climb up
and lie on a rosy pillow of “Pink Velour”
dance to “Red Rocket”
dream in “Pride of India”
taste “Peppermint Lace,” “Plum Magic”
on a hot night, drink
of “Twilight” and “Delta Jazz”  

Colors dazzle.
Raspberries come to mind
intense and juicy
right off the vine
and raspberry popsicles too
staining your fingers and tongue,
creamsicles, bubble gum,
purple grapes and cherry tarts.            

The candy store has painted its brick
building pale peach, in front their crepe
myrtles bloom the color of lilacs.   
It makes my heart flutter, such a delicate marriage.

peas, potatoes (new),
soup, chicken,
Shaker Lemon Pie

Skipping Stones IV

I tried to teach my son how to skip stones
Across the creek, across the pond.

I tried to find the perfect shape to fit his hand,
One just the right size to wrap his fingers
around the edge so it spins just right
And leaves footprints on the water,
Then losing momentum, sinks down to rest.

I held his hand in mine,
The shape of fingers over fingers,
Of cold stone and pink skin,
Of water flashing sunlight
As the breeze parts the leaves above.

Small hands and arms and feet and legs
Spent time splashing and throwing rocks
As big as he could carry
Sending tiny fish and crawdads
Sailing away from us.

His voice joined the song birds,
His own melody 
mommy – mommy –
Harmonizing with the robbins’ song in B minor
The cardinals’ chirps, red flashes above us.

All of it suddenly fading to the back of my mind
As the stone kerplunks on last time.

Born again.
          My first rodeo.
                    Alzheimer’s blessing.  

                    Anything could happen.
          It might be good.
Right?  

Something’s off.
          It pokes me in the ribs
                    but doesn’t have a face.    

The push-pull of desire for connection.

That ache of the needy, needy, needing.

How do you trust

people who are all equal parts

broken and breaking?

The card said:

            Community is a conduit, empowered connections
            merge and celebrate together, wherever you are.

Serpent Mound spirits appear in our photographs,

you with your long copper hair, head lifted, shoulders back,
            and me looking for magick rocks hidden beside trees
            with your child– we don’t need the snapshots
to remember imprints everlasting.

            This home at the Ohio River a halfway point.
            Before that, Colorado’s Cherry Creek.
            Next, the Hudson.

The significant currents are of course our own.
Born at the junction where two rivers meet,
I suppose I should be the one who has long known:

We become the rivers,
            or close to it.