Regrettable choices
There have been quite a few
Plenty of I’m sorry(s)
Paste due dates on to dos
Many evenings I sit repentant
Begging for forgiveness
One bedroom apartment
Turned confessional booth
Yet every one and zero
In my bowl of alphanumeric primordial soup
Lovingly
Violently
Led me
To (all) of you
They will not behave, these words
of mine. They fight or flee,
refuse to bring the music in my
head to the page, and I begin to think
I’d be better off, more useful
to society pouring coffee and toasting
bagels, until the rhythmic thunk-thunk
of their fall through the slicer
reminds me of music . . .
A warm cup of tea
A cloudless starry night
The cutest little ladybug
Making time to write
The wave from a neighbor
The call from a friend
A hug and a kiss
at each days end
The smell of anything baking
or creating a new dish
Picking every dandelion you see
closing your eyes and making a wish
Dont be waiting for all those big moments in life
missing the little things right in front of your face
Those little things are what keeps you going
filling your life with glitter and grace.
The fun pile of memories
In the heat of childhood visits
where there was no pain or struggle
only picnics and watermelon
walks in the dry red river
swimming in the cold
spring fed pool
The pile of gossip and pain
who owes who what
who left who, when and for whom
the despair of
no water
no job
is too much
wind and heat take over
The pile of dreams
moved around
piled up
pushed down
endless attempts to preserve
when red turned hight contrast
to the remains of cotton
scattered in the field
I’ve watched you hold
And take care of the old
Raggedely things
With devotion and faithfulness
You preserve, repair and reuse them
Respect them
We, the dinged, the dented, the squeaky
Are grateful, we
Ramshackly things
From a full chest filled with breath, I say truely
My heart is this big for you
The leaky old thing
On an island bright and green, my mind sets a lovely scene, where golden barley gently waves in the breeze.
As the sun looks down and smiles and a gentle rain beguiles while lilting birdsong drifts over from the trees.
A short span across the Channel, on a lushly green mantel, spires of hops reach toward the sky,
And in this alpine valley, angels dance and dally, and a heavenly flavor they apply.
Way up in the Wicklow mountains, there are sweet and pure fountains, that bubble from deep inside the earth,
And this elixir sweet and pure, no one can demur, in the brewer’s tun multiplies its worth.
Sure the barley must be malted, and then when its growth is halted and it’s roasted to a lovely shade of brown,
It then forms a boiling wort, in which the hops play and cavort, then the magic starts when it’s quite cooled down.
In comes the swimming yeast, upon the sugars they will feast, and to think, the alcohol’s their waste!
While still not ready, rest assured, once this potion has matured, it has found its bouquet and its taste.
Now here I set, a sober fool, astride my favorite stool, at my favorite pub, leaning on the bar,
In quiet anticipation I await my libation, that has come to me here from across the sea so far.
When the time has come to pass, that it’s served up in a glass, a dusky beauty with a light and bubbly head of foam,
All the goodness in one glass mixed, as I stand and stare transfixed, as she settles upward from below.
Ah, I can not help but think it, it’s almost a shame to drink it, but of course I do, you know for that’s the thing,
Then I slap the bar top, “Oh brother! Can we please, here, have another!? For you know, the bird never flew on just one wing.”
Once again as the day starts to begin,
my mind recognizes that you no longer live
and I wonder how many times I will
have to come to that realization every morning
Will the knowledge that you died,
eventually make its way into my mind as a fact?
Will I eventually stop thinking about you every day
and wonder what you would be doing if you were here?
My mama’s heart longs to nurture you again,
but I know that God’s care is so much better and
you are not only healed, but happy and wholly nurtured
by your heavenly father and now you have no needs.
Now, I must start my day, nurture those that are present
with me, while the gaping hole in my heart swells with pain
and I wonder how I can get through this, yet knowing that the
same God that you now reside with, holds me in his arms as I grieve.
The hummingbirds have stayed away this year
the feeder fouled with crust, suspended ants,
hollyhocks a cleaner vein of nectar.
Beyond the raised garden bed, weeds extant
climbing things, saplings, leafy random plants
flourish, only the back fence to contain
their frenetic impulse to reach, attain
supremacy over this little patch.
It’s with great sadness and no little pain
I surrender — Mother has won this match.
