Posts for June 10, 2022 (page 4)

beware beauty,
beware beauty, ever fair
silver moonlight in her hair
lips that shame the ruby rose
eyes abyss the winter snow,
dreaming soundly in her blackest robe
never leaving – never growing old 

once again, she will come
riding home at break of dawn
our spirit may permit 
but summer days freeze from her kiss

beware beauty
beware beauty, ever fair
eyes hushed amid the flame,
from ash arise, she’ll bathe our sins
mothers fertile land, anew our kin. 
till beauty rocks her slumber old –
beware beauty, ice cold.

for some reason I turn right instead of left.
I drive down that endless road,
the road that leads to home,
not even noticing that I should have turned left
until I’m almost there.
might as well.

this home no longer belongs to me.
I know this
and I have driven past it before knowing this,
but something about this time is different.
there are flowers on the mailbox,
big SUVs in the driveway,
An American Flag.
an old man rakes leaves
in the street in front of his house
and for a moment I’m sure it’s Alan.
the last thing you want to do is get caught in a conversation with Alan,
a never-ending, only somewhat comprehensible conversation
with that well-meaning old man,
but I swear I would have pulled my car right over.
I think he would have been excited to see me.
but, of course,
it wasn’t him;
Alan was pretty old when I lived there
so he probably —
well, anyway.

I refuse to drive any further,
past the houses of old friends,
down the streets we used to walk.
as I leave,
I see my that grandparents have painted their house
baby blue.
how strangely insignificant
for me to feel so much about.

the roads are newer
and the traffic is slower.
over the bridge
where he lives
two rights and an unprotected left turn away.
past the parking lot I walked to and from
rain or shine
to make quiet mistakes for a mean man
while the kind one
apologized to me on his behalf.
the winding roads
leading to my first kisses.
the forgotten paths that used to take me
home.

driving down these roads feels like
playing an old video game again.
you remember the characters
but forget most of the stories.
it takes you a minute to remember where you’re going,
but you remember.

today I met up with an old friend
and we had the most human conversation we’ve probably ever had.
I mourned the friendship we could have had
had I felt human all those years.

some part of me is woven into these streets,
I just wish I could remember what it was.
I wish I had experienced my life here
so that I could feel the pain of leaving it behind.

instead I feel tired.

My old drunk friends don’t think
I’m fun sobered up, and it’s true.

No longer do I gag down the medicine
and feel my jaggedmost thoughts. 

I used to pull some attention 
in my imaginary heart–false confidence 
in almost everything I’d have to mend
in the morning. Maybe boring is okay.

Maybe the cardboard walls I’ve built
around my throat will remain dry
for many more years–many more years. 

Help wanted

looking
for 4
excellent
female
comedians
for a
comedy
tour
playing
the whole
Tri-state
area
North Carolina
South Carolina
Maryland
Florida
Georgia
Texas
New York
all
expenses
paid
plus
stipend
Sounds
like a
comedy
of errors
run by
a human
wanting
a small
stable
of funny
females,
who cannot
do math.
8 states
is not
tri-state.

After years of empty chairs,
messy drawers, unmade beds
and not caring about leaky faucets
or good food, he finds himself here,
on her back stoop, with his hands
in his pockets. He smells the sharp brine

to the syncopated measure
of her steps across the kitchen floor.
He’s never known a house
without sadness…only ones
where carpet stains were sins
and the tribe was always at war.

She’s caught sight of him
and comes out to takes his arm
for a tour of her herb garden. The mint
he knows by scent and from the others,
basil, dill, garlic and lemon balm, 
she pinches a bit of each for him to taste.
He watches her mouth when she chews
a morsel of ginger. 

Tomorrow he means to go 
out the door without looking back.
But she says don’t worry,
it’s ok to feel good and he follows her
to the porch where his shirt is 
on the line and a hen is
in a nesting box next to a basket
of eggplant. She’s in an apron
of sunflowers bent toward the sun

Poison ivy renders my hands useless.
My computer in the hands of repair. 
I rock on the back porch,
watch beans sprout & grow,
watch kale reach leaves higher & wider,
and ponder my existential life. 

Title borrowed from a May Swenson essay. 

They’ve been reading the Laundry List Manifesto again,

so I’m pretty sure my dishwasher and disposal
are trying to start a revolution.

Gargles gurgling, urging change, grumbling guarantees,
raucously urging other appliances to action . . .

First!– Sever each extended warranty.

Sure, I was poor
but my mother always said
I was a survivor.

I have no idea
why she said that
but she has been dead

a long time and I survived.
And I am still surprised
at the grocery store.

I can buy what I want
and barely look at the price.
Talk about nice.

No more Dumpsters for me.
No more cans with missing labels
from the salvage store.

Sure, I was poor
but my mother
said I was a survivor.

air comes down the branch
a church fan breeze
to cool our soul

with no map or directions 
meandering aimlessly 
the pilot light is out.
One step at a time.
Missing snuggles and giggles,
parenting,
grandparenting,
travels to exotic jungles,
cerulean seas.
Cooking for two
and sleeping with you.