Posts for June 15, 2024 (page 8)

Making new friends
is a very sweet part of life
that ebbs and flows with time

But, old friends, that have 
stood the test of time are
a true treasure

They are the ones you call
when something new and
exciting occurs

Old friends are the recipients
of the really tough calls
that stem from disaster

Memories from longterm
friendships are what sustain
you even without contact

Decades long friendships
are truly a priceless
gift from God

The blue atoll lagoon,
sweet salted air
sun warmed sand
my feet cool in the waters
angel fish nibble toes
small swells roll up
then down the shore
a man lounges
under the shade of a palm
a coconut washes up
I reach down
pluck it from the water
fish taste good
cooked over a fire.

You can keep going, but it will only get darker.

hotter, midday, scorched ground
still air to whipping wind in minutes
summers used to be cool here
mother on the phone, telling you the news
at first, she cried when it got worse
her new voice, unmoving

You can keep going, but it will only get darker.

now, moonlighting as the type of girl
who sits on her porch, looks up at the sky, and thinks
when did there get to be so much to think about?
so little room for ephemeral dreams
like, what if there are fairies in the holly trees?

You can keep going, but it will only get darker.

darker, a blot of ink when you hold down a pen
pigment, juice, intensity, soaked through every fiber
darker, like mixing all the paint, like every snow cone flavor
darker, the funeral service you knew was coming

but darker, the friend you used to swing with on the playground
now sitting in your chair-swing outside
knowing every piece of you, impossibly entwined
listening for all it’s worth
in this house you rent
in this world you built

Keep going.

Note: I had a dream that I was walking through my mom’s hometown, and the lights just kept dimming, no sun, no streetlights, just this gradual sense of dark that intensified as we walked. It was almost silent even though we were downtown. People kept handing us notes that I thought were either warnings or invitations to something, but we couldn’t read them because the light was fading so fast. Right before I woke up, I heard a voice behind us say, “You can keep going, but it will only get darker,” and it’s been playing in my head since.

Anfractwhat? Or How Straight Is Straight?

Unwavering
as an arrow
that spins
in order to slice
air, which isn’t as straight
as a ruler’s edge,
the arrow that is,
which has nicks
in it even after sanded
with rough, gritty
protuberanced-paper,
the arrow and
the ruler’s edge,
and when I sit
up straight
to write
there’s curves
in my spine
and when I look
I see straight
through imperfectly
sphered balls
ink drips
from the pen’s
rounded tips
whose nibs whip
blobbish droplets
into direct connects
between a and b.
Crooked fingers
grasp banded shafts,
wrists rotate to create
finely finished lines,
pencils’ leaded
conical points
traverse
in starts and stops,
leave little dots,
dupe fools
into thinking
unbent is without
twists or turns,
but I’ve learned
how anfractuous
straight really is.

All the energy I had,
you devoured,
in a matter of seconds.

I listen to you,
validite you,
love you,
support you.
When really,
I am biting my tounge,
so hard it bleeds.

There are words,
written in my mind,
only for your train of thoughts.
If I say them out loud,
you will go off,
like an atom bomb.

And, I will never see you again.

You are blinded,
so deeply by,
your own disasterous mind.

Will you ever feel ready to listen,
or does the truth terrify you too much?

I will change my power supplier tomorrow.

rows of worn shoes on
rusting racks above skirts,
sweaters, blouses—musty,
moldy scents—stale,
manure-like from leather
boots dumped at the thrift
store. scratched. yet their
character intact. a high-end
brand, too, she otherwise
could not afford.    willing
to attempt their healing,
she hands over 7.99, takes
them home, sprays lysol, stuffs
with newspaper. later spreads
on oil. conditions, buffs.
maybe it’s the thrill
of bargains when the world
pays little, taxes much–or
curious imagining of its
abandoned life. did money
make former owner happy?
or maybe it’s just that
the boots spoke to her,
said, get me, i’m cool, too.

I want to bloom
in the late afternoon 
of my life 
like the solitary yellow
four o’clock blossom 
out my bathroom window–
last through the dark night
and be there when the morning comes
in a solitary yellow blossom.

Granny came into the world
shortly after the assassination of President Lincoln,
grew up during post-Civil War reconstruction,
and lived a long life in Southern Appalachia.
She witnessed the invention of radio, telephone,
automobiles, airplanes and television.
She lived through two World Wars, Korea,
and early U.S. involvement in Vietnam.
She mourned the assassination of three U.S. presidents,
the loss of four sons and her husband.
She saw astronauts go into space and orbit the earth.
While raising a family, she baked, canned, cooked,
farmed, gardened, washed clothes on a washboard,
weaved on an old-fashion loom,
and road side-saddle, all while puffing her
Pamplin, Virginia clay pipe along the journey.
She lived during a time when neighbors looked 
after neighbors and were willing to help.
I knew this strong mountain woman
and still ring her 1889 dinner bell,
she was my maternal great-grandmother.

There were many rugged female pioneers who helped build this nation, they were not famous, but without them we would have never made the journey!

Sunday morning, nursery arrival. Let’s go outside, get some air! A lone nighthawk slices through the light, her wings whispering secrets on the wind. Below, nestled amongst the rough wood and dry leaves, a tiny egg huddles, a fragile speck against the vastness.