Posts for June 25, 2022 (page 4)

Drops in, unannounced
Right in front of you
Your choice, kick it out
or invite it to stay

From out your head, your heart
Creative insight, an idea
Inspiration, imagination

Nurture that spark
Bring some kindling
Keep it close, coddled
Forget about it-
the fire goes out

This kind of thing takes time
Acorns become great oaks
under the right conditions

Build it, stay with it
Piece by piece
For the meaning, the purpose  

That internal driver
Knows something is there
Something to share

Claude’s* the one I look for weekly.
Big, sunburned, hair askew, taciturn.
I strain to hear his mumbled menu:
“coffee”
“what kind of soup?”
“ham-and-cheese”
—just that.
Prefers his coffee black.
Otherwise silent,
his bulk gentles the parking lot
where he squats,
a lump in nylon sleeping shell.
Once he unleashed a string of words—
soft technobabble all disjointed.
But mostly mute
until today:
 I see him point to me and murmur,
“I want him to serve my soup.”  

*Not his real name

Walking into the Gare de l’Est in the 10th arrondissement day’s end
pacing souls back & forth being here going there
as light changed shades folding into Autumn

Trekked past the food bizarre ~ backpack feels heavy
quick side-glance piles of kitschy souvenirs whizz bye
mementos of a grand temps in the City of Light

Tickets schedules Parle vous Francais
Lines shorter for those who roll their “r’s”
Longer if not pushy 

Caught a glimpse of the Man with the Green Valise
Smothered in a long grey faded beige trench coat
Strangled by a too many times wrapped 10 foot muffler
Leaning on a wobbly cane packing an over-stuffed magnificent Green Valise

A walking shadow body boasting of intellectual prowess
A worn out saunter accented his Southern drawl
Years of heavy cognacs drenched an over the pond wet try to drown his Confederate soul
He rolled a fluent ‘tres bien’ French dialect bearing no resemblance to his plantation roots

Years fighting Bloody Corporate Greed on the other side of the pond
Etched deep crevices a furrowed dark lined brow delineating all North-South demarcations “I’ve earned everyone,” he proudly claimed
Smile creases erased
His was a ‘serious’ mask

With fresh scars he told us he was recovering from triple bypass surgery
no health insurance to cover his care
In France this was not alarming!

His heart wounds bore the weight of ‘seeing’ ‘breathing’ and  ‘feeling’ too many bloody injustices delivered at the hands of the American Government 
The French Government had also failed to ease his pain

We negotiated an Ex-Pat French American Mason Dixie Line Union
Souls smiled as we shared the language of a Party coloring his valise

“Only intelligent party there is right now is that there Green Party . . .watered down Democrats is like havin’ a mint julep triple sec’d with caramel food colorin’ . . .”
His declaration echoed off the marble walled station
A tired soul screaming for a truth soapbox exclamation

Light began to fall on another Autumn day
As it grew darker we silently watched him order a Mint Julep
Telling us with a wry grin, ‘for old time’s sake!’ 

Shared addresses yet we knew this was probably
Our first hello and our last good-bye

He helped us secure tickets for a Paris-Florence overnight cabin
Didn’t have to wait in any long lines

The Man with the Green Valise leaned forward on his shaky cane looking deeply into our eyes
muttered some words about our short time on this side
promised to rally with what family he still had on ‘state-side’
promised to ask them to come ‘set a spell and talk story’
all in a promise to settle up what days he did have left

We said good-bye in the autumn of this life in the City of Light
Sharing the same question on our hearts 
Who will be with us when we’re called to go?
None of knows the day when the conductor will say,
“All Aboard, do you have your pass? . . .

The empty soup bowl. A treeless knoll.

Empty pockets. A hangerless closet.

Empty folds of deep sofa. The spool 

without thread. A treadless tire. A cloudless 

sky. A dry lake. Empty nests. 

A faceless moon. An empty hand. 

A handleless rake. Nights with-

out rest. A songless voice.

Not moist sand. Not strong enough.

A body that no longer spoons.

Paralyze
Inspire
Knock you to the ground
Turn your life around

no, there’s no music
only a root packing up
just a beet boxing

today morning doves
tomorrow
robins will greet the sun

How does he do it that rapid adaptation to change he’ll tell you it’s all in the how the why is subjective and it’s really all up to you

he can do it in the dark less science more art he knows where he left it he knows where to put it and instinctive muscle memory plays a part

how he does it he just does and it does it or it doesn’t off the start he does it by doing and doing always does need a start

how does he do it?… he does it with all his heart

He had an inviting smile that lit his whole face.
She saw it first, the kind eyes, the humble way
he looked after loved ones, his loyalty, his 
care giving.  She let me know he was a
keeper. I had unfinished business with 
another. He patiently went on with life
but kept the door open. Mom kept
the door propped open.
I will never regret going through
that door. It led to my
life partner.

I am a walking Dissenting Opinion.
Living, breathing, seething.
Every day of my waking dissenting life,
I embody Your politics in my practice.
My practice of being Human.
My practice of making mistakes.
Your mistakes become my undoing.
Your laws on my Body.
Your lawful / unlawful / awful body of mistakes
retakes my Body, lifts it from me, red and bloodied.
This Body, read and right and so full of wrongs
to not be just mine any longer.
You hold it up to the world, unfurled, a decision made.
You gender it. You speak the black & the white of it.
The text of it. You bellow the subtext of it.
Bely the lies of it.
You proclaim it for me. You deem it Just.
Just what?
Justified?
You Justices of Injustice.
You aren’t my gods.
You aren’t my Sacred.
I do not bow this Body to You.