Posts for June 24, 2025 (page 8)

“I wonder if you knew how I watched,
            How I crowded before the spearmen.”   
                                              H. D. “Loss”  

Forbidden to say who you were by a geis     
laid while you swam in my womb,
your father could not acknowledge you, a stranger,
despite the twinish appearance.  

Allowed to teach you all I knew except
the javelin of lightning – your father’s demand –
left you vulnerable to the champions’s thrust.
Had he seen me watching, the hero of Eire  

might have guessed, but sword play blinded his eyes
to all but the skill of the youth before him.
Who was this foreign warrior with the lilt of Skye on his tongue
and fine knowledge in combat?

Cuchulainn forgot his own curse
laid before his son’s birth, a seed of destruction.
I watched the grass of Connaught bend with your blood
as Cuchulaiinn grasped reality

in the ring on your hand.
Why had he not noticed, he stammered,
as your face fell pallid.
You died in his arms.  

This mourning mother returns
to an island of mottled boulders
along the cool-lipped sea
to tear an altar on the Isle of Skye.

                    “Look not upon me, because I am black,
                     because the sun hath looked upon me.”

                                               — Song of Solomon 1:6a


Wisdom is the language of light & shadow
& when offered the divine, you chose

to straddle that collision, loving the Lord,
walking in the statutes of David your father,

but sacrificing & burning incense on the high places.
I cannot judge your ways; I cannot comprehend you

separated by millennia, you with that wisdom, but—
I wonder how illuminated the blessing, laid beside

the dark & deep of its perversion.  What greater temptation
did you embrace & face entanglement:  Malevolence

of  antediluvian spirits,  or the wiles
& ways of seven hundred wives—

three hundred concubines besides?  What wisdom
lies with audacious hubris—thinking you could please

that many women—or control
that many demons?  And yet

He still looked upon you, still spoke
& wrote of you, with sweet esteem…

at least until His anger burned & tore
the kingdom away from you.

Yet–when scripture selects a song of love—
to persist the centuries, whether Queens or Princesses

or any other truth of identity, your serenade rose above—
even—the poetry of your father.  Your banner

over her was love; she sat down under your shadow
with great delight, your fruit was sweet to her taste.

She called you apple tree among the trees of the wood
& I cannot help but see that Rembrandt Triangle:

Wisdom, & Apples, & Intimacy—
your pale against her dark—

that final temptation buried
within a core of shadows.

*Layout mattered/was essential to me on this one.  Image won’t post here, but on FB*

https://m.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=4321572958071740

Up on that Royal
balcony, revealing his
unique self by that
tongue, eye rolls, Royal hand waves
upstaging all the Royals.

Inside, glass, tube, Dune
out, Fall Aster stalks
host to rayon spider webs

rain-worn hillpeak’s court
Blacktop Cosmologies
Veins to warm the Vacuum

I didn’t have time to write a poem–
no visions in my head;
no clever rhymes or metaphors–
inspiration dead

I thought I’d put something down,
but nothing came to mind–
the harder I tried to think,
the more blank, the more blind 

perhaps another time
I’ll have something of worth to say–
until then, this page is blank–
I’ll go on with my day

was going to text
good morning i dreamed of you
but i remembered
you’re on a different path
I don’t get to walk beside you
and that’s alright.

still.
good morning i dreamed of you.

It seemed like a good idea to drive off the cliff,  
when I thought all the roads had collapsed and disappeared.  

I threw the car around. 

It turned out,
they had only closed for maintenance. 

What: Removing spent blooms where they meet the stem.

When: Wait til they are dead or have been dying– Petals dried or drying, wilting. From spring to late fall. The flesh just underneath has yellowed or browned.

Why: If you don’t, the plant will convince itself its days of production are ending. You can have blooms through Thanksgiving. Or you can have a dead plant. Your call.

Where: On your garden’s edge of lullaby. Long before the stem browns toward the earth to slowly ease the plant to sleep.

How: Always remove just the head.

Note: If you’re learning the art, and pull one section of a starter marigold up from the rest, try replanting that piece elsewhere, for a bonus surprise plant.

Results of all above efforts: New buds appear after a couple good rains or a couple nights, whichever comes first.

Bright sunshine and lemonade on cool grass

Warmth spreading across my chest

Wide smiles, wet teeth

You’re everything to me

Familiarity, sincerity

Laughter bubbling out of our mouths

The gurgling of your stomach

I never want to leave

Trilling of a phone line

Spitting rain and heavy air

That ever present longing

I never want to be without you

Even on the dark days

With hope nowhere to be found

You make everything better 

Fates intertwined 

A soul cut in two

We were meant to find each other