Posts for June 8, 2024 (page 7)

A thin blonde wisp of a boy floats through the store,
More eager for understanding than treats,
No greedy fingers or whining, just being.

The little will-o’-the-wisp hovers
Beneath the helium balloons
A place befitting his ethereal presence,
But readily takes my offered hand
To help him follow mom’s direction to join her.
“I’m right here.” says his harried mom,
Her tone colored with the strain
Of a thousand previous hasty judgements.
Yes, dear, I see you.

Minutes later he finds me in the aisle
Chirping, “Mama, mama, mama,”
While touching his thumb to his chin.
Hand in hand, we find her again
And I remind her she’s doing good,
No need for apologies or worries.

When they arrive at checkout,
His insistent staccato repetitive
“Mimi, mimi, mimi, mimi, mimi”
Joins with the beep of the register.
He comes to rest at my side,
Once again placing his hand in mine.
I flesh out and co-narrate
His repeated single word signed version of
The adventures and joys of Mimi’s house,
Making crafts and riding the side-by-side.

The rest of my day has been buoyed
With the blessing of the gentle brush
Of this sweet butterfly of a boy

Lying in the sand
washed by crashing waves

Eyes closed
we listen to comforting dreams

In the lull of a steady Pacific pull
we fall asleep
three a breast
to rest

To see . . . you see . . . the sea . . . that used to be your Home

We listen to a conch shell whisper a long Atlantic tale
as the call of the Golden Gate still beckons you Home

A poem bubbles in my chest
as we rest
from the rest

No pen to write
wise words
ebb and flow
in rhythmic crashes
telling us

Let go . . . Let go . . . Let go . . .

In new Buick cars
They delivered used toys 
To their sister’s kids.

Tromping through glass
Knee high in mid-May’s spring
A wild strawbery appears.

Swing bridge
River flooded in spring–
Child grips rail.

Nest over creek–
Like magic ticking clock hand
Hummingbird bill turns. 

Spring baby chicks
Nice to hold-easy to die
Lace lined casket. 

Short sticks–split nails
Blistered fingers-children
“backer” setters.

Barefooted all day
Behind the tractor
Child declodding plants.

To and fro Pa’s shack
Grandad’s sharecropper family
Chidlhood days went by.

Purple rickrack sewn 
By Mom on calico cloth dress–
Easter Sunday frock. 

Inside pine-grooved 
Wall-school, Bluebird reader
I-creature anew.

Balogna sandwich
Fall tomato-no cash for 
Cafeteria line. 

School bus driver–
Store stop-child’s birthday gift–
Nickel candy bar. 

 In Grandma’s cellar
Summer sessions of school
Taught by child–Kay.

Barefoot walking on
July’s rain-wet grass is like
An angel ride. 

Your inclination to grab the camera
phone is automatic,
it’s absence infuses the moment
with the rush of water over sculpted stone,
days of rain have caused an impoundment 
back beyond the curve of stream
to produce this pounding energy
of a little Niagra;
your two dogs, busy with deer skeleton,
are interested only in their primordial gnaw
for old marrow and have no interest
in your haphazard path;
at the approach of dusk
you walk the steep angle of Sled Hill
and coyotes begin a magical union of howl,
as their choir fades a lone goose
flys close overhead honking frantically
for its long gone gaggle;
you look up, draw 
no conclusion from the indefinite sky
no lesson for your briefcase life.

Soon
the imprints of your mud-caked boots
will be all that’s left of you here,
their message will be read by beings
not familiar to you but will be cawed out
for all the world to know

I used to love you,
with all of my heart.

Now…

I hate you,
with the passion,
of a million burning suns.

you see through me
like a three way mirror,
reflecting my gabled forestry
with intent so much nearer

each angle, each facet,
reveals what lies within;
no troubles, no tacet…
just the truth, needle and pin

prick from blood, i find
map of days to go
& in this, i take in kind
for i have yet to grow 

in the heart of the matter,
to the depths of despair, 
i see the SouthEast in lines & tatter
of which i relish, i swear

so make me whole with your omnipotence 
see through me like glass
but watch me shatter & sunder—precipitance
i pass

to the dirt & to the hills, 
i langour in lush love
for all to see in stills 
or thereof:

so, see through me still,
& let me see you, oh daffodil

i miss the sensation
            of connection
i miss the sound
            of two laughs colliding
i miss the crackle
            of a sideways glance
i miss the sweetness
            of an awkward hug
i miss the comfort
            of a planned brunch

i yearn for the sensation
            of being understood
i yearn for the sound
            of a knock on the door
i yearn for the crackle
            of a shared experience
i yearn for the sweetness
            of an embrace you can melt into
i yearn for the comfort
            of a dedicated friend

i pretend the sensation
            of emptiness within me is illegitimate
i pretend the sound
            of my phone is ringing is a birdcall
i pretend the crackle
            of inspiration within me is dead
i pretend the sweetness
            i taste is artifical
i pretend the comfort
            of time slipping by is comforting

i turn the page
            and so it goes

on and on and on
            

Anna’s lambs all ran away.
She never knew where.
I think Tim nightly visits
old woolly looms on
scruffy turf.  

Anna asks and
he enters
with his grinning                                                                                                                                        dog who looks so
smug.  

And he is no pup(py).

Dad’s carlight floods into 

Lost in thick forest,
I emerged, ferns, twigs in hair,
saved by noble pines.

I whispered, thank you, thank you,
your shady signals swaying cool.