Posts for June 19, 2024 (page 3)

If I wasn’t born in this time frame,
I may have started a collection of
Beanie Babies and played on my
Tamagotchi while waiting for you
in the nineties. I may have listened 
to my Walkman chewing bubblegum
and attempted to impress you by 
solving a Rubik’s Cube in the eighties.
I may have bought you a tacky pair
of bell bottoms and we could have
matched in the seventies. I may have
asked you on a date to make our
own Tie Dye t-shirts and gifted you
a purple lava lamp in the sixties. I may
have met you at the park to Hula Hoop
and we could have laughed at my
mother’s sad attempt at a Gelatin Mold
in the fifties. I may have driven a Jeep
on our way to a movie theater and gave
you a Frisbee for your dog in the fourties.
I may have read comics about Batman
and Superman while sitting close together
on the couch in the thirties. I may have
listened to live Jazz music with you in the
twenties. If I was born in those time frames,
I would have done exactly that, but instead 
I was born now. I’m going to take you on
a date to the local National Parks and
then we’ll laugh about the old trends.

Respect – another name for fear. 

What did you expect?

There’s nothing left to say here.

But you should know-

That I don’t care.

If you want disrespect-

You can find it here.

there are two narrow
roads to infinity, yet
dread not, they draw the same toll;
a final choosing.

To only do, or do not. 

Two deer littered the interstate:
one northbound,
one southbound,
both dead and decaying

In another life,
I know I am their murderer

Rural
When I say it, it sounds
like a bunch of Rs with an L 
slapped on at the end.

Rural
the Chaplin River I waded in,
once threw a crawdad during a fight
then ran away because I was afraid…
of the crawdad.

Rural 
my aunt’s house in Tennessee,
2 miles off the paved road
you can see forever there,
but never a neighbor

Rural
y’all and bless your heart,
neighbors you know,
quiet nights on the porch swing

Rural
a million stars shining in the night sky,
the quiet croaking of frogs in the crick,
the susurrus of leaves in the wind

Rural
where you find all the things
you miss in the city

Nothing here.
No survivors.
Wasteland
heart. I am
nobody’s 
favorite
or beloved.
I devour love.
It is never
enough for me.
I am always
hungry. I am
fruitless. My
climate is arid,
inhospitable.
Unsurviable.
I retain nobody.
My heart is
a cupped palm
trying to hold 
onto water.
My heart is
so hot you
cannot breathe
the air inside of it.
You get trapped, 
you starve too.
In my attempts,
I go through many
people. I am
endlessly wanting.
My wanting is the 
end of many.

I watched my mother
amble off balance now and then
in her later years
To hide it
she would
try walking a little slower
on an outing or at a gathering

She slowed down
gradually over time,
Except whenever we stopped
on the side of the road
at an Antique Mall
that she had indicated was a must
from the back seat
as though hailing a cab
—-she may have needed help
getting out of the car,
but once inside the warehouse
of what-nots, woes
and orphaned dreams
She moved at a different pace
closer to her glory days

She became like
Diana and the Golden Apples,
a bit of a marathon runner,
private eye detective,
discriminating purveyor,
leopard stalking its prey,
driven on a quest… gifted with
a built-in scanner capability
as she passed through
row after row
of jammed booths…
She had this thing where
she could find
value in a heap of chaos

After having
Antique Shops all of her life
she knew antiques well

Once she got them in her sights,
she saw how a dull veneer,
once polished, was a gold mine
She saw the carpenter’s
heart and hand in the curve
of the tavern chair,
She saw the blacksmith’s hammer
hit the glowing red metal
forming each branding iron.

She knew
how things were made,
knew what was rare,
what was missing, what was what!

Whatever heart medicine she
was taking,
touching these
things she loved,
time traveling through
the portals they offered
kept her heart beating

These things pulled her
into the present,
feeling vibrant,
reminding her
of who she was
and what joy it gave her
to still be a
Magnificent
Hunter!

Sun sparkling sandstone steps guided us down

Deeper into the ravine cut into the massive hills

The effervescent green canopy collided

Delightfully with the sea foam green

Of the cloudy sky

A brown snail slowly sailed up a tree beside us

A red mushroom peaked from behind a fern

A thousand untold trail treasures

Remained hidden

Discoveries for future days

We finally met the waterfall

Impressive in her stature

She sang her presence for the last quarter mile Of our trek

Sweetly ushering us forward

A melody that melded with birdsong

There we rested

As if the rejuvenating waters were the holy grail

We became mermaids and crawdads

Pirates and sirens

The gentle pond beneath the waterfall

Reflecting imagination and wonder

Into reality

We soaked in the magic

Of nature’s playground

Absorbed all it offered

Filled our cups until they were overflowing

To hold us over

until our next enchanted adventure

whoever thought that
lavendar would be so good
in a hot latte?

Don’t listen to 
what they are 
telling you.
Don’t buy 
what they are
selling.
Teenagers are still
meeting at public pools
to do handstands 
in the deep end
and play volleyball
in the
brittle browned
summer grass.
Kids are still running
the ashpalt
and spreading 
lightning bug guts
on their
sticky sweet
popsicle cheeks.
Lovers are still
picnicking in the parks
and stealing kisses
behind their
tacky tinted
car windows.
We are only doomed
if we stop believing 
in our wonder of
the never-changing.
We can’t go broke
if we never buy 
what they 
are selling.