Posts for June 30, 2023 (page 5)

The May flowers in my yard baptized by April
showers have endured
June, but one by one they submit to July’s all-consuming,
green.  The lilacs were the first to go, their honeyed
ambrosia too heavenly for a humble
bricked-in bed.  The roses, once crowned with ruby
petals, have balded to paltry stems
bowing beneath sun’s heat.  The peonies
shed their boisterous blossoms, now only blackened
shreds so delicate a finger’s brush could disintegrate their shriveled
softness.  A few valiant primroses
speckle my front garden, but even they wilt.  I inhale their citrus-
steeped earl grey scent, so I can memorialize their sweet perfume.

Poetry is a flower that buds but does not wither.  It does not languish
without June’s nourishing soil, though July’s loam is not so fertile;  it sprouts
elsewhere, in pockmarked
pages, long car rides, listless
clouds, sparkling sunbeams, tinkling
laughter, streetlamps so ornately carved they murmur of otherwordly
forges.  While I wait for next Spring’s bloom, I will find
poetry blossoming in every vacated
sidewalk crack because poetry
is our most resilient perennial,
inexorable, ineffable.

Thunder growls all through the night
as I lie awake with worry about
my tabby cat, Oscar
At nearly sixteen years old
he valiantly carries
himself minus a leg and
uneasily lugs loads of fear 
of storms and loud noises
A part of me wants to growl
too in the dark
Someone must be strong  
ergo I sob in silence

A most joyous day it will be
when Oscar hops back home
My girls say in the future 
he’ll never be allowed
outside lest he become
lost once more and a storm
of sorrow rumbles through them
Someone must be strong
but may it be so that my next
softly falling tears be those of gladness

haiku: nina simone’s cover

i can’t listen to
her “here comes the sun” right now.
it’s winter in me.

I know how right you are, you nightmare,

The sun was dimmer this time of year.
We sat on the floor of your crystal palace,
brown curls spilling down like the gnarled tree your sister painted.
There was no concrete way to express our grief,
for two people who have lost little but enough,
just the crying and the silence and the emptiness that followed.

Today is my sister’s birthday
Yesterday was my other sister’s birthday

One born before midnight
The other born after

My sisters are unique and special

Identical
Twins
With
Their
Own
Birthdays  

They called to inform us that your ashes are ready for pickup–
how strange it is to think you could possibly fit into such a tiny box,
all that love,
   all that life,
        all of you.

But there you are

and here I am

      s
         C

         a
               t
      T
                e
         r
                      E
                                  d

Holding you
contained before my eyes
while your spirit envelopes every waking moment I continue living.

letter sealed by wax

I was vegetarian(starving),
curling the fried fringes across my teeth—
minced meat and melted cheese
bolted to my lips, begging to
fix themself to further to my face

Lowry lips, lean left
a little longer—the wanting
will subside. The waiting
will have been worth it.
The whole will have
been healed
The emptiness will
finally be edifying…

I can’t believe I thought I could
eat around it; I can’t believe
I thought I could be vegetarian

Although I told her personal things
I know mermaids are not real

But see, the trees keep growing
The talking head on T.V. gives his opinion

Each morning slightly different
Now folded into paper like a swan

I decided that I’m not that crazy
Is anyone listening?

Again the light shines on the wall
There are two baby rabbits living under the shed

The past visits like a stray cat
Stirred by my waking

A reluctant day beginning
Celebrated or maybe mourned

The clanging of machinery, the water rising
Anything goes

If you live close to the source
and a green gown made of hope