Nothing here.
No survivors.
Wasteland
heart. I am
nobody’s
favorite
or beloved.
I devour love.
It is never
enough for me.
I am always
hungry. I am
fruitless. My
climate is arid,
inhospitable.
Unsurviable.
I retain nobody.
My heart is
a cupped palm
trying to hold
onto water.
My heart is
so hot you
cannot breathe
the air inside of it.
You get trapped,
you starve too.
In my attempts,
I go through many
people. I am
endlessly wanting.
My wanting is the
end of many.
I watched my mother
amble off balance now and then
in her later years
To hide it
she would
try walking a little slower
on an outing or at a gathering
She slowed down
gradually over time,
Except whenever we stopped
on the side of the road
at an Antique Mall
that she had indicated was a must
from the back seat
as though hailing a cab
—-she may have needed help
getting out of the car,
but once inside the warehouse
of what-nots, woes
and orphaned dreams
She moved at a different pace
closer to her glory days
She became like
Diana and the Golden Apples,
a bit of a marathon runner,
private eye detective,
discriminating purveyor,
leopard stalking its prey,
driven on a quest… gifted with
a built-in scanner capability
as she passed through
row after row
of jammed booths…
She had this thing where
she could find
value in a heap of chaos
After having
Antique Shops all of her life
she knew antiques well
Once she got them in her sights,
she saw how a dull veneer,
once polished, was a gold mine
She saw the carpenter’s
heart and hand in the curve
of the tavern chair,
She saw the blacksmith’s hammer
hit the glowing red metal
forming each branding iron.
She knew
how things were made,
knew what was rare,
what was missing, what was what!
Whatever heart medicine she
was taking,
touching these
things she loved,
time traveling through
the portals they offered
kept her heart beating
These things pulled her
into the present,
feeling vibrant,
reminding her
of who she was
and what joy it gave her
to still be a
Magnificent
Hunter!
Sun sparkling sandstone steps guided us down
Deeper into the ravine cut into the massive hills
The effervescent green canopy collided
Delightfully with the sea foam green
Of the cloudy sky
A brown snail slowly sailed up a tree beside us
A red mushroom peaked from behind a fern
A thousand untold trail treasures
Remained hidden
Discoveries for future days
We finally met the waterfall
Impressive in her stature
She sang her presence for the last quarter mile Of our trek
Sweetly ushering us forward
A melody that melded with birdsong
There we rested
As if the rejuvenating waters were the holy grail
We became mermaids and crawdads
Pirates and sirens
The gentle pond beneath the waterfall
Reflecting imagination and wonder
Into reality
We soaked in the magic
Of nature’s playground
Absorbed all it offered
Filled our cups until they were overflowing
To hold us over
until our next enchanted adventure
Don’t listen to
what they are
telling you.
Don’t buy
what they are
selling.
Teenagers are still
meeting at public pools
to do handstands
in the deep end
and play volleyball
in the
brittle browned
summer grass.
Kids are still running
the ashpalt
and spreading
lightning bug guts
on their
sticky sweet
popsicle cheeks.
Lovers are still
picnicking in the parks
and stealing kisses
behind their
tacky tinted
car windows.
We are only doomed
if we stop believing
in our wonder of
the never-changing.
We can’t go broke
if we never buy
what they
are selling.
Sitting in the corner,
Inbetween the unwanted,
A small, unassuming dress,
Hidden by the hideous,
Passed by by passerbys,
I took it with me,
And in the fitting rooms,
Door number 11,
Surrounded by mirrors,
The squabblings of mothers and daughters,
I found my perfect fit.
I never thought there’d be a day,
When I’d say, “I’ll take my shower another day!”
It used to be, between you and me, that was only true of the elderly.
When am I old?
What is my elder worth in gold?
Who will care if I wash my hair?
Who will notice what I even wear?
When does pretty fly away ~ along with every single hay day?
Who earns the privilege of silver hair ~ safe and secure not even a care?
Who will stop and visit, bring some chicken soup?
Who will be around, when I’m down and duped?
No one wants to be alone ~ carry a loan on her own home.
Divine Mother Nature opens her arms,
Her trees bring breath healing and charms,
It seems as the elder body weakens and wanes ~ the spark of ‘Chi’ still flows not strains,
Meridian pathways no matter how old ~ pour energy like liquid gold.
Naturally we question the end, try to run the opposite way,
a sacredy-cat crisscrossing attempts to extend the stay,
Bargaining with that end date ~ convincing self it’s not too late,
Hoping there’s strength to hit the bell, at least give it one last swing ~
What the hell!
Grab a soda, cotton candy, throw a dime on a plate, and tell ourselves it’s not too late
to win a Kewpie
ride a tilt-a-whirl
shake the fear
give it one last cheer!
To lean and eye the tattooed guy,
the one holding the make-it-faster stick
Try to convince him to do his tilt-a-whirl trick,
and like a top, no one wants it to stop . . . just make the ride a laster!
Make it a ride, a Midway ride, to glide right on over to the other side . . .
Wild lilies like
fireflies spotted
the shadowed lake bend
a proud and lichen
crusted boulder watched
moss and minnows grow
Strong magnolia
grew up far beyond
the understory
our bright boats felt strange
among the grove so
we rowed in silence
spring unwinds
in the record heat, perspires
and stretches its full length
then expires, completely
unsprung
