Posts for June 20, 2023 (page 2)

Cogs slip
words flit away like mice
when you turn the light on
age becomes a dart you throw
at the general vicinity of the board
after last month’s fall another year
slipped by, no longer the youngster
of 84, my sail is set into the long tooth
of octogenarianism (is that a word),
my sister’s neighbor Dr. Hue
has become a knitted friend
his losses are mountains, mine valleys,
we love each other in ways he would
never put in words, what a blessing
in my accursed exile in this accursed
so called sunshine state
but this entry is not about hate
but the lovely love of my masseuse 

Iris Iris the light of my eye
slightly older than my great granddaughter 
Penelope (who seems jealous).
When  my face crashed on Dr. Hue’s 
cobble stones he prescribed twice
weekly sessions with Iris
her fingers are angels who
fly slowly up and down my body
landing at each stop with the force
of utter delight, their presence
stiff then merely strong then 
a warm melt like heaven
down through my muscles & bones
into my soul (after all these years
i now know I have one)

caldera of cranium
split away like atoms of uranium
what was once Lancelot
houses essence of Lord Mordred

unknown to the unattuned
Mordred sifted through all degrees of magic
savoring necessity for a half life
expelling the rest outward from Camelot

just enough to subsist off
situation seems adjacent to barren
no longer great and powerful by magic
but now as Lancelot wields Excalibur

Percival apparates of Daedalus
strikes his sword beside the former Labyrinth
fists at the ready to beat down Lancelot
unsure of how Excalibur has been lifted up

here Mordred downpours deception
“the sword rested in my backside over years
why should it not respect the blood
this parasite has only leeched of?”

Percival snapped at sacrilege
before stepping with balled fists
as Mordred looses Excalibur from his wrist
until Daedalus reminds the two

we may be all there is

Now far less
The time ticks away as this poem is written
and the Titanic Tourist Sub sits in the Atlantic out of sight and sonar
 
Tragedies are everywhere
War in Ukraine
War in Sudan
Things I can’t understand 

This is what I’m watching now

Perhaps because
the victms have names we know 
They are so few
not casualties on a list
Our brains can frame it all

We know who they are
what they do
even how much some are worth
when they stand on land
I can answer that too    they are priceless
Just like you
Just like me
So we wait
 

Curving highway removes me from my place – the destination unknown. 

#americansentence

I slashed sentences, pinched paragraphs–my patient slimmed three hundred words.

Soothing, in the dark,
me lying outside the covers,
warm along her curved body.  

Quavering, help me,
I’m sick, call Daddy,
and I go to the hall,
pick up the receiver
with its looping black cord.  

Joyful, Libbety-bib,
teasing, Arise, O Lib,
admonishing, lips pursed,
Queen Elizabeth.  

Growling, laughing,
reading me Ferdinand the bull
and the story about the possum
at the bottom of the barrel.   

Hopeful, tomorrow,
that newwww day, will
come.  It will come.       

    For Roberta Wilson Gilkison Falk     
    (June 20, 1913-April 21, 1980)

Pretty sure I’m not alone in wishing
my brain had a hack reset function like my iPhone;
when it gets too bogged down in painful memories
of my precious kitten drawing his final breaths 
on the blanket spread on the cold metal table 
at the vet as I held my face close to his, 
and dripping wet with conversations playing back
over and over again between the man who used
to tell me he loved me and the girl I was for him, 
and soaked to capacity with excessive tidbits
like the ratio of cups of water it takes
to boil half a box of rotini pasta,
and the detailed recipe for Karen’s customized
iced caramel macchiato at work,
maybe I could just gently place it
in a bowl of rice to dry itself out again,
restore it to the original divine factory settings
before it became steeped in sin and grief.
I bet I’m not the only one who would relish
in a night of thoughtless and dreamless sleep, 
sinking heavily into lavender and vanilla sheets
as their brain sat on the nightstand in that little bowl
to become cleansed and renewed by daybreak.

I keep thinking about daylilies
lining the creek banks

blooming mid-June
bright against all that cool green

how the orange petals pop
from my car windows

winding down the road
alongside them.

Females of the Gym Rat species
can be identified by their brightly-colored,
skin-tight plumage and their seeming indifference
to the males who can be spotted
furtively glancing with wide open eyes
although some of the older
previously banded individuals
may try to avert their gaze
which can be difficult considering
the showy display of the females.
The males will typically stand facing
a mirror in full view of the females and lift
large weights to demonstrate their strength.
Some may even make grunting noises
to show the extreme effort required
to build such massive muscles.
Physiques built in this way
are believed to attract the female
of the species. Unfortunately, at some point,
the muscles become too large and prevent
the female Gym Rat from desiring
the over-developed male.
More studies are needed to ascertain
the success rate of these mating rituals.

I’m afraid of snakes alive and
in person, pictures, on TV or film.
Imagine not opening the S section
of encyclopedias or dictionaries.

Not going to the reptile room
at the Museum of Natural History or
waiting outside the Zoo’s reptile exhibit.
Closing your eyes on Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Not letting anyone in your home
watch reptile nature shows.
Walking through tropical forest
eyes closed holding someone’s hand.

I live in NYC where I don’t see snakes
but human behavior is slithery, slimy
and reptilian in act but not look.
I listen and watch what people say & do.

I stay away from them too,
if they make one slippery move
and their words and deeds are lies.
This means they are snakes too.