Posts for June 24, 2024 (page 5)

Sitting with me on my porch
over breakfast, Louise Glück
talks about impending death,
her sister going to a place 

where she could not speak. I listen
and look up to wave at a neighbor
trucking down his driveway, passing
my son’s pasture. There sheep

and goats graze, not thinking
of death, but separated from it
by a few thin strands of electric
fence. While we do our best

to keep our charges safe, we can’t
know how close we ourselves
are to the end—what might churn
in our bodies or be around a bend.

For this hour though, the air, dry
and cool, yields right-of-way to wrens’
exuberance. Safely at a distance, 
a vulture, mute, mimics Louise’s sister.

What the hell do you expect me to do?

Watch from afar as the love of my life
Gets drunk and drives off of a cliff tonight?
And then what?

Then I’m still supposed to believe in love?
Then I’m still supposed to be believe everything I have was given to me?
Was planned out for me?
Was written in the stars
And designed for me?

When I’ve watched everything I love die
Inches out of reach?
Where I can see them, hear them, feel them,
But can’t touch them?

What does that leave me with?
And what does that make you?

A wall of eggs outstretched

my shampoo and soap

bottles get a free concert

each shower of mine.

the apples and walnuts  chopped
carrots and cheddar  sharp of course  grated
not raisins no soltanas  not good enough nope  tart montmorency cherries  dried
lemon juice  just a splash
granulated sugar  one quarter cup
mayonnaise  the tang is just right  scooped with no clear gauge 
vinegar  apple cider of course  its sweet bitter meets the mayo and makes a marriage 
one quarter cup
big metal spoon  two hands hold the bowl  several stirs and turns
just enough of a surprise  making one scoop memories   
the other relish something new

we elegant dance, we elegant speak, we elegant
wear pearls, we elegant leap. four self-portraits
of confidence surround a study of equal worth.
younger self—black silhouette, whose dance
echos seven times, looks up to stern older self,
says, don’t forget to feel joy. far left, an ageless self
faces away—red ball gown draped off-shoulder,
says, wear pearls, diamonds every day. real,
not real–  just make sure they glow, you glow.
multi-media self, above center, in pressed white
paper wings, billowy pants and blouse of reds,
pinks says, leap high, fly, freedom-sing. freedom took
a long time coming, still does. white privilege can
say it understands, but never can know. i sink
in chair, listening in, nod—wordless. now
middle watercolor study—torn scrap of three
paint brushes, speaks loudest—we work
for a living–dip in-and-out of vivid colors—
flow life, remembrances across each sheet—
celebrate dreams, remember.               art works
elegant-signed. treasured for their creator. treasured
for moments they impart elegant words to me.
when i sit still enough to listen in.

I’ve been getting lost in another family’s history, unearthing their stories
and the stones of old foundation walls in the rolling Ketucky hills and hollows.
I pried one loose today, from old farm dirt, like it’s been waiting for me all this time.
Bulldozers and death can’t erase all the memories, even when they try. 

I didn’t know 20 years ago that one day I’d need to know how the air can be perfumed by sprawling tobacco leaves drying in southern sun,  just knew I liked the smell that reminded me of some kind of deep, dark tea brewed from old men’s beards and ladies high heels.  

Couldn’t have seen that my penchant for flea market shopping would help me save a stranger’s love story from mold and negelct and rabid crafters lusting for vintage paper.

Couldn’t have guessed that my personal quest to resurrect my own lost ancestors from the gaps of history would teach me the genealogy skills to help another family fill the holes in their skies. 

All the books I’ve read, that Master’s degree I was afraid I’d never get to use, my innate love of asking the aged for their wisdom, of saving the forlorn, forgotten things,
all the lives I’ve already lived and all the places I’ve already been,
my own loves and losses and fears and falls, all
-all-
were preparing me for this adventure.

To gingerly unseal foxed and faded love letters, overflowing with passion, war, and poetry, to invite a new generation to fall under the spell of young Kentucy lovers long dead,
but alive forever in the sweet nothings penned by their innocent hands. 

To act now as abbess, priestess, scribe, storyteller, protector
of a family and story now as dear to me as my own. 

(thoughts on the excitement of working on my first creative non-fiction book, and my amazament at seeing how so many of my life experiences have been preparing me to tell this exact story…)

As if she were
Grinding a bubble bee 
On the ground
That had stung her hard,

She stomped 
The flower 
On his grave
With vigor
Twished —turned 
Her foot on it—
Ground it down 
Dirt deep
Like the hurt 
In her heart. 

if I stay here,
nestled,
would someone bring me
a steaming cup of soup?
brush aside the regret that loving me
isn’t lipstick-stain pink?
pardon the weight of my eyelids;
the smog is dense today.

Sometimes I can’t write….

I go blank,
nothing gets put on the page.
I stare in space
sometimes my frustrations turn to rage.

I squint my eyes,
to see words that are hidden.
I’m trying to move this pen,
but it seems creativity is forbidden.

Speak, scream, say something.
barren are the thoughts in my head,
can’t remember a song, a movie,
a book or what the last word was I said.

Writer’s block, damn it!
Can I really say I have that?
If I’m a so-called writer,
I guess having writer’s block is fact.

Where’s my motivation, where’s my muse?
Oh, how at times words spew out like vomit,
as if I ate a bad word salad,
that was full of words I couldn’t stomach.

Headphones on,
there’s no music in my ear.
I’m blocking out noise,
yet desperately trying to hear.

Sometimes I can’t write…

Really, because why?
Do I have nothing interesting to say?
That’s BS to me, and maybe others,
if anything else I can write about my day.

Who wants to hear,
what goes on in someone’s life?
Quite a few I suspect,
that’s why biographer’s write.

Dreams of being a poet,
seems so far far away.
Talent, time, imagination,
from me sometimes strays.

I’m feeling feelings,
some feel wrong, some feel right.
I’m just venting right now,
because sometime’s I can’t write.