Posts for June 3, 2022 (page 5)

routine walking
and now I sit atop
above the sirens, mowers, sounds
cars are passing, moving faster than I care to this evening
I ask myself how I am, as if I am two people seated as opposed to just me
if there’s any concern about the happenstance and my composure
fine, I’m fine, I tell myself
and it’s true
I’m looking ahead
realizing there is more, much more
I needn’t rely on memory or reminders
the good stuff happens when I surrender while simultaneously moving
forward or sideways but never back
and that’s the crux
the familiar, though bland and often ugly, is behind me
a place I could easily return
like a dive motel on a no longer traveled route
I refuse and pay the price for something more
mostly, simply something serene
     no need for concern

The ground has shifted

Stone flower beds

cleared of ornaments 

to make room for

vegetables 

Third pandemic 

growing season

tomatoes and peppers

planted, fertilized, and staked

I miss the carefree perennials 

Joy is a butterfly

Pierced by a pin

Framed behind glass

To be studied.

is anything but firm.
Unrelenting drama queen,
she drops rain one day
flakes snow the next
bolts lightning at night
breezes balm at dawn.

But who would want to trade?

She, too, hosts doves 
whose cooing soothes, cozies
up to trees and their leaves’
cleansing cells, shares 
sheets of satiny scent, fresh
from sweet clover’s homeplace.

A white wrap around porch

On a crisp sunny day,

Not too hot, with a perfect breeze

A comfy day bed and a book

A shiny blue pool and a sangria

An old guitar with a worn out notebook

A house not too big, so you’re never lonely

But lined with windows so the trees keep you company

Horses running in the field

And dogs snoring on the couch

A rusted but-still-drives-like-hell Volkswagen bus

Pulling a cheap but-it-floats boat

To a lake with crystal clear water

Not too cold, but enough to cool you off

Pre-packed sandwiches and chips

With a few bottles of sunscreen

Papaw’s fishing pole and dad’s packed-too-full tackle box

A hike through the woods with a few scrapes on your legs

Not too long of a trail, but remote

To a waterfall with a swimming hole

And stay all day with a small but warm campfire at sunset

Gooey, savory s’mores and a sweet kiss

But nothing more

A tent with more blankets than you need

And music that seems to scream at your soul

A beach front dive bar

Passed down from my mom

Filled every night with locals,

And tourists on the weekends

Humming to the tunes from the underground band

Comfort food and a cold drink

Crashing waves and the smell of salt

A bronzed tan and sun-lightened hair

Three overripe bananas with shriveled
black peels in a ziplock baggie, from before
I learned to peel them first

A bag of supermarket brand soup
vegetables, featuring okra, that passed
through two other freezers
before landing here

Half a package of gluten free
bagels from that time the church
council experimented with different
bread for communion

Several plastic containers of liquid
I believed so obviously self-explanatory
they needed no label

I was wrong

like the black cat
poised to rush into the road
dissolves into a rotting treestump

like our buried dog  
chasing my car up the driveway
vanishes when I turn to watch it

the broken link tells me
the thing I was looking for doesn’t exist

before the tractor shook loose the clot
that traveled to his heart
before the phone call shook me loose from my body
and confirmed what my gut knew

our camper waited behind the barn for us
to pull her to Zion
in a summer he would not live to see
I still have not seen Zion

like my neighbor with cancer
whose job was to haul gates
drives his diesel flatbed the same route
every hour through town  

or the bent, iron-haired woman
who quick steps the sidewalk
around and around the Methodist church
each dusk

patterns build predictions
the mind wants to keep alive

back in my body I have found my feet
walking, walking, walking
not to Zion
but in loop at the park

because I want to stay alive and because
the thing I was looking for doesn’t exist

In children’s stories grayed by time’s page-turning hand
black cats belong to witches who lure kiddies
into their cottages with twisted stripes of unlicked candy canes,
to forbidden allyeways where gambling halls and greasy fingers
lurk and wait to steal away society’s youth.
If you spy a feline cursed with a bewitched black coat,
superstition teaches you to cross the street,
look away, 
pretend it was a shadow or a ghost.
In real life, black cats trade their devil horns for sweet pink tongues
to kiss you on the cheek when they’re sure you’re not looking.

My little, black cat trills 
hello with a musical flare,
singing mewling melodies for extra Temptations treats and ear scratches.

Instead of bringing bubonic plague to our doorstep,
my little, black cat scavenges for catnip-rich sloths,
long-dead fabric mice, cottony Q-tip swabs, 
and abandoned Lego bricks in our home’s crevices
to gift to us while we sleep nestled in our beds, 
so we wake to trinkets of serendipity 
strewn like scattered wildflowers across our bedroom floors.

My little, black cat crosses his front paws in armchairs, gazing
into some imagined world where fireworks
whisper shades of red and gold to a silent sky.

My little, black cat knows the secret spell
to transform bawling tears into sunshine smiles
with a cheery meow and friendly nuzzle.

The next time an ebony-cloaked kitten greets you on a city block,
cast aside your talismans, 
your shamrocks and rabbits’ feet,
for black cats are the luckiest charms in this unnlucky world.

Mortal awareness strikes without warning.
It’s a fast-acting agent shrouded in obscurity