moth-eaten butterfly wings
if i were a butterfly
my wings would be
melted, moth-eaten
but
before that
before all of that
i would be beautiful
if i were a butterfly
my wings would be
melted, moth-eaten
but
before that
before all of that
i would be beautiful
Joy and laughter
fill my heart
I sing inside my soul
the treasures I have found
on earth
are more than I can hold
Far more…..
There is no rain. Some of the plants dug up from our neighbor’s yard on Sunday are still in the garden shed. We planted a few that day, then the rain came & we saved the last for later. I asked Larry to move them to the patio so we would see them & not forget them. They may already be too far gone. I should’ve moved them myself. This is really about worrying about who goes first. It is a much more present reality than it was 32 years ago when we first got together & had plenty of time. Now we develop a Covid strategy. I pay close attention to every Larry’s every task. Could I do it if he wasn’t here? I think I’d find a way with most chores. It’s the money management, bill paying details I lack. Once we made an agreement I would take over. That didn’t last long. In fact it never began. I don’t know if it was because he wouldn’t let go, or I never truly embraced the task. I am stuck between thinking I should do something now and not worry or wait & figure it out if he goes first.
Twenty twenty five
ninety five degrees, Larry
plays Gurdjieff music
Death and Tacos Erasure Poem
after Nathaniel Whittemore
Waiting for my number to be called
Foot against a curb
hold your breath?
like Louis Armstrong
How much better
giving gracious consent See ya
Death sad sack of lonely-self slumped somewhere
All in its own time, the foxglove
blooms, one of many seeds sewn
late in this petite garden—
never having had the chance
to greet the forsythia,
but that’s the way it always is.
All on their own, the rainbows
of zinnias and bright violet bee balms
fed the bees—the bees who buzzed
life into this world— while we leaned
into chairs and goals— alliterated,
altered, dreamt poetic lines of hopes
and despairs of our world—
All in our own creative joy
and inspirations— but in June,
not all in and of itself,
not all alone, we’ve bloomed
bouquets— All in this garden
of diverse scents and florals,
all in our own time,
yet all together, whole.
Page after page, the red lines
bloom and sever.
We murder darlings
with a keen sharp
endeavor. “Cut deeper,” I murmur,
voice gravel-rough,
“Till only the line’s
spare rhythm’s enough.”
We lean back. The page—
clean as a whistle.
Traded in for breath’s
gap between ticks—
the thin as hair
on a thistle.
Just the ghost-
rhythm of two pens we set down,
self-satisfied creatures–
and this changed
nothing owned.
No poem left,
no features to discuss over dinner.
“Feels like holding breath,”
you said sweetly,
and we both felt
like winners.
Rain comes down like darts at dusk.
The sidewalks are slightly glistening since the street lights
that have just turned on
There is a Cafe Restaurant with outdoor seating across the street.
It is closed and no one is there.
No one is walking anywhere in the streets.
A man wearing a long black raincoat
emerges from a nearby alley behind the restaurant.
He walks hurriedly after taking a sharp turn
making a path in front of the outdoor seating of the Cafe.
There is a guitar case over one shoulder.
His hand lifts up diagonally across his body to hold it in place.
He speeds up as the rain starts coming down harder
at a diagonal angle.
When the man had sharply turned he had made a spatial misjudgment
making him bump into some of the tables of the restaurant.
The chairs and tables are still chained together
and the rattle of the chains are loud and alarming.
With both hands he shoves a table out of his way,
which makes him loose his footing as he awkwardly stumbles.
He quickly rights himself and resumes walking.
He pulls his guitar to the front of his body, hunches over it and shields it from the rain.
He keeps his head down and makes a strait line for Main Street ahead.
He becomes one big dark shape as he moves further away.
His silhouette is like that of a large walking Waterbug.
He disappears around the corner.
Orgy on the River
~~~~~drowned in the mud of love~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~entagngled like a web of desire ~~~~~~
~~~~longing for more
yet pullled away by the earth~~~~~~
keepin you sunk in it’s grey clay claws
awaiting another torrent to take you away~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~sweepin away the flaws~~~~~~~~~~
My pic won’t load–any advice much appreciated
Somewhere on the
