Live here in a fading skin
still glowing, always trying to open my eyes a bit wider
at best the years will be unending
edge me back from every despair
I’ll fly instead of fall into the mystery
inspired by Aaron Hawkins’ poem, “Life in Four Movements (The Living Myth Podcast)” & the opening pages of Rebecca Solnit’s book, “A Field Guide to Getting Lost”
Why did he teach me to believe
you never go back on your word?
Others are not so kind, or
their word is so heavy
that their fragile arms cannot support
it for longer than a few hours.
A few hours may even be generous.
I doubt I stayed in your mind
longer than a few minutes
after you drove home, promising
not to cry and to focus on the road.
Who were your tears for? Surely
not for me, because if you missed
me, you would take initiative. No,
I know the tears were only
for the death of a routine. You
couldn’t reach out after leaving,
because after all, I cease to exist
when you’re not looking at me, right?
Eid, and I was fretting over the henna on my hands,
Summer has matured
The air, hot and thick
The garden teems with produce
The days are full like a tick
The children know
That free-time is short
They run barefoot in grass
And build shady forts
The cattle stand in cool ponds
To escape the heavy heat
The corn and the berries
Have never tasted as sweet
There’s a sense of urgency
A carpe diem spirit
The frogs are croaking, “summer’s ending!”
A reminder to those who hear it
So, we take the final trips
Do some sittin’ on the porch
Dip our toes in cool streams
While the sun burns like a torch
Soon, a yellow bus will round the bend
But until we come to meet –
We will savor every bite of summer
It is ripe, and good to eat
We started out renovating for ourselves,
changing what we didn’t like:
taking out the scroungy carpet and white linoleum,
impossible to keep clean, repairing window
blinds and black out pull downs, thinking about
adding a better recliner for Mr Man.
But then as we cut and ripped out
the scroungy carpet, Mr Man said he was ready
to look for a pull behind like I had wanted
for years. Let’s face it, I never liked this RV
from the get go, it was all his idea,
he just had to have it. She did serve her purpose;
I can’t tell you how many times I camped
with three grands, us all piled on top
of each other when it rained, how many times
I camped by myself at the river farm,
sometimes a month at a time. (OMG,
alone time is so very necessary to my life.)
Must be a man thing to have a drivable RV.
Let me tell you, within three hours of his
giving over (Snap Your fingers!)
I found two pull behinds
on facebook marketplace could work.
(Secretly I’d been watching.)
One definitely did work. We moved out
of the RV into the camper and are now
finishing the reno for sale. O, new tires!
RV For Sale! Anyone?
Lawyerly poet distilling
love and music from
inspiration, poeming
like a paralegal, a Kafka-
bureaucrat. Result: his
testimony, his witness
borne of Nuremberg —
blood in the South, in
Babi Yar — sit like bricks
on bookshelves, suitable
for libraries and court-
houses. And yet he wrote
a poem about a stray dog
who bonded with him,
rushed across a busy high-
way just to be with him,
and the poet’s poet re-
solved to keep him, even
buying him two burgers
at a fair. He lurched between
cold hard facts and a love
poem for a canine; no wonder
he self-published. Small price
to pay for writing what you like.
Across the street a blue van pulls
up to the curb – eventually a man
and his daughter, I assume, or child
bride maybe, emerge and knock
brightly at my neighbor’s house.
Carol Burnett tells jokes on my TV and I,
Gladys Kravitz, watch them smiling pass
a pamphlet through a crack in the door then
turn as I dash suddenly down the hall, hiding
from the knock that does not come.
this morning
I sit on the porch
there’s a woman painting
she is sitting on the sidewalk, easel set, brush in hand
under the shade of a large tree and I’m curious
how long will she stay
until her work is complete
or it becomes hot beyond comfort?
this morning
it’s truly summer, says the calendar
a church bell tolls, as is the norm downtown
eleven dongs, although I didn’t take time to count
people walk, sometimes with leashed dogs
I consider why they’re on this particular street
headed downtown with a purpose
or the opposite, perhaps home?
this morning
a dad and son with luggage await their driver
the woman paints while they think of their next stop
the dad takes a photo, the building in which I dwell
people often look at it in awe, I’ve noticed
curious as to what it is or once was
I think about a photo I discovered
posed, so long ago.
this morning
I avoid the annoying questions
which in reality are actually facts
I’m focusing on what I love
while dealing with a pervasive sense of panic
I must figure out a way
unless I’m handed a victory
doubtful though, as I’ve no recollection of a fight!
this morning
question
question
statement
exclamation
a man and woman stop to watch the artist paint
soon they walk on
at some point I will too…
A stubborn ember escapes the fireplace.
An angel is laid in snow.
The bottoms of a synthetic tree are left untouched.
A gingerbreads house comes together perfectly.
Fighting every nerve in the system is sure to leave you sore
but whether lights, a movie, or a person,
I hope you find something to keep you warm.
