Posts for June 23, 2024 (page 9)

I lunge through a wall
of trees. Dreaming, I float
to moonscape. I marvel

at the large blue earth
& I am suddenly an atom,
a speck of lunar

sand. I recall the silk
of river, scent of yellow
elder. How my muscles

insisted when I was rowdy
but scared like a slow-footed
terrapin. When I used to lug

my troubles around;
they were weighty as fat
wrapped Italian

hams. I’m reduced now
to moon grit,
a vibrant, imperceptible

hum.
I peruse the tumbled
rock, camp-out in a crater

under a comfortable granule.
I could get used to it here
& relax as the earth spins

far below, no worries in sight.
No control,      I’m swept back,
beginning the dream’s end.

I morph to jellyfish & sea
bream. I backstroke home,
heavy as a continent.

I wake on the wide
rim of a tuba, returning
to my body’s subatomic

keening. I toss off the sweat-
soaked twist of sheets,
naked & newly awakened.

The tall boy races
down the up escalator 
to show that he can. 

Not “he” or “she,” a label worn thin,
But the name that ignites a fire within.
Respectful ears, attuned to the sound,
A symphony of self, echoing around.

They listen, they learn, with open hearts,
The language of identity, tearing charts
Of assumptions, biases cast aside,
Embracing the truth that pronouns confide.

A simple “they,” a weight lifted free,
A sigh of relief, finally being me.
No stumbles, no slurs, a gentle refrain,
Respect woven into the everyday name.

More than politeness, a bridge they construct,
Where pronouns acknowledged, a world less corrupt.
Inclusion blooms, a garden diverse,
Respect for pronouns, a beautiful verse.

For in that respect, a message is sent,
You’re valued, you’re seen, a magnificent intent.
The world shifts a little, a ripple of change,
Acceptance’s embrace, a world to rearrange.

When eyes don’t see so good, at the end,
secret messages can sneak in.  

Holiday and hellday are almost the same.
It’s hard to hold the letters just one way.  

People and poesy manifest
by locking their opposites in the basement.  

When eyes don’t see so good, at the end,
the petticoat of apocalypse is showing.  

There once was a cricket who slept in my slipper
So as not to flatten him or be pinched by his nipper
My spouse had a knack
To bring Kilroy out back
Our luck has declined but his chirps have gone chipper

I used to get so caught up in what could’ve been

You and me dancing in the kitchen

Kisses under fairy lights

Your hand in mine

Falling asleep in your arms

I used to get caught up in what could’ve been

But not as much as I get caught up in what was

Your tears and the look in your eyes

Running away when I needed you the most

My heart being ripped into pieces

So heartbroken I was sick

Those feelings, those memories play constantly in the back of my mind

I watch them from a distance, not understanding why I felt the way I did back then

And yet I am still entangled in you

Wrapped in the cobwebs you left behind

Remnants of broken glass still buried in my skin

The lines of your poetry seared into my memory

Your fingertips branded on me like I’m cattle

Because no matter what I do

No matter where I roam

I am always yours

I will always come back to you

Ten pounds of crawfish,
Plus corn on the cob and whole potatoes,
Serves two.  

Eyebrows rise
As the great speckled pot
Is set before us,
 
Eating them takes some effort.
Rip the tail off
Crack open the shell,
Pull the meat out. 

Savor the spicey delicacy.
Then for real spice,
Suck the juice
Out of the head.  

An hour later, the pot is empty,
Hands are tired, mouth burns.
Even beer won’t cool the heat. 

The memory is vivid the next day,
When hands are too sore
To hold a glass of water.  

I’ve heard of tennis elbow,
But who knew
About crawfish hands? 

While daddy had a strong

      work-outside-the-home ethic

      sometimes two jobs

it was our stay-at-home-mom’s commitment

     I was most inspired by

     her raising seven kids   

     supper at five.

That summer in the late 80s

     maybe it was the need for more money

she got a job as city secretary

     in a small west Texas town, population 300.

When we went to the family reunion

& walked to the one-block downtown

into a small office

she sat at her desk

attentive

hands folded on top. 

Mom!  What are you doing?

She quit the next week.

No one likes to think they may be enjoying
their last knockwurst.

But you reach an age where such thoughts
slip past the polka band,
step out on the dance floor
and do the chicken dance.

Of course, life being the trickster
that it is, anything might be a last.
Last trip down I-65.
Last time drinking a cold Pilsner.
Last time wearing lederhosen.

Our time at the festival of the living
is brief.

So, savor the moment:
make it two hotdogs,
with relish.

What could be more surreal
than Salvador visiting
a baroque Roman church?  

But this Christ of Saint John of the Cross
stands amid frescoes and sculpture spanning
centuries. An act of artistic faith,
this modern Christ in a drone’s-eye-view
over Calvary, a fishing boat below—
is a gift of contradictions,
fruit of a saint’s fiery dark nights
and an artist’s restless search for God.  

No coincidence, nearby is a cross
said to be miraculous, saved from fire
that consumed this church,
said to cure a Roman plague,
brought by a pope in COVID
to St. Peter’s for his lone walk to pray
in silence for healing in another
time of plague.  

And would Dalí smile to see close by
the tomb of Cardinal Giovanni Michiel,
who died of poisoning,
whose cook was put to death by the pope?
But rumors still persist,
it was the Borgias.  

I rest my camera and try to fathom
faith, real and surreal,
that hung
and hangs
before us.