HE SLEPT IN COMFORT

Somewhere in California

"It is what it is.  And I am what I am."
He chuckled through snorts. His belly
inflated, deflated intermittently,
his mind did too.

He thought of family. Some lost
their homes to nature's devastation,
others got lost looking for the yellow brick road.
The wolf ate them.
The rest are still fleeing from him,
sometimes hiding in shaky structures,
doing the best they can with what they've got.

"Too bad for them. I'm just glad I'm safe,
smart, still hungry."
He gurgled and snorted joyfully
devouring the slop,
plentiful in his sturdy house.
Then he slept and slept.

Outside, the masterful wolf licked his chops.
He smiled.

(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)


(Haven't been around much.  Have been under the weather and dealing with renovations and moving.  Hope the wolf doesn't get me before I can visit your blogs.)

ERIN GO BRAGH

I remember how the nuns taught us.
Awkwardly, in their penguin uniforms they bounced,
immodestly showing their feet in attempts to stomp
their truth into our heads,
as if salvation hinged on
how a true Irish does the jig.
They had no clue their good intentions
didn't match any reference I had.
I'd never heard of such a dance or man
who convinced Ireland there's only one green path.

They did their best those nuns,
to animate reality of hell.
"Tongue kissing. What's that!?
 Something that to no lady would appeal."
Besides, it's guaranteed
anything beyond a touch of hands
gives rise to tongues of fire,
to devour a girl's curious zeal.

They taught of heaven too.
A tranquil place with palaces
where green meadows grow.
It sounded boring as hell, no reward
for all the acts of self-restraint

one had to unwillingly undergo.

Their holy focus laced
with ignorance and bliss,
never spoke the benefits to health
that eating greens invokes,
or the magnitude of damage
our carbon dreams would bestow.

Now as I think about those women so saintly,
I wonder if their innocence had such immensity
as to forgo a hero's grandiose celebration
a green mark of commemoration
by drinking a little Irish libation.

(Submitted to Dverse Poets)

A MOVING TASK

There are closets in my house, and my mind
storing stories, imprinted images, tarnished,
discolored by time recreating the past.

As I clean them out discarding once valuable clutter,
spirits rise, enriching the moment.
Grandparents, friends, relatives smile
sharing happy times, some I never knew.

I relive my wedding, thinking we were pretty cute.
I recognize my grandson in my daughter's babyhood.
I see youth gradually fade from those transitioned -
ancestors now roaming unknown realms.
(Thoughts of my own fading quickly traverse my view.)

Then the surprise of grief interrupts. Through flow of streaming tears
I see my mother's albums replete, not with her photos, but mine.
And in my life's chronicle, I hear words she never spoke.
From the vapors of her grave, "I love you,"
she says via the many pictures she saved.

Time's dimensions get compressed on my treasures and my clock.
Impossible to sort generations in what should have been an hour's task.
Finally, it's time to bury unwanted ghosts in a box guiltily marked trash.
Others are re-stored for future visits to the past.
They'll sleep in darkness in a corner of a house.
But they'll live too in my heart, beaming light,
refreshing the closets of my mind.




(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)

THE END

Church in Taos, New Mexico

Some thought he forgot her.  Not so.
She just shrank into tiny place in his heart,
while his mind got full of all he couldn't remember.
Then he only displayed fear, disguised, unrecognized
by him or the others he annoyed,
who didn't see his behavior
was the only way he cried.
 

Took a few years for him to follow
the love that kept him anchored.
Confined, she had no power to suppress his pulse,
his grandiose fantasies, which flashed like neon,
electrifying any who came near, burning
'til he had no one to impress.

He repelled those who helped,
who tried to love but failed
to see he was alone,
the way we all are
when we're unliving and undead.


So, when that tiny place in his heart
released her to him once again
through his final breath,
he welcomed the joy of death.



My aunt died about four years ago.  Her husband passed away yesterday. He was a difficult man, especially after he suffered from dementia.  But he had a kind heart and she saw that. Her affection was the closest to unconditional love he ever experienced.  And now he's happy to mesh with it in an unknown place.  At least that's how I want to end this love story.

(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)

MY CHOICE TO FLOW IN UNCERTAIN PATHS

I've never understood lovers who chose to  part.
Regardless of circumstance, shouldn't love conquer?
Now I see, I've been naive,
not seeing love's complications, the layers,
facets competing to shine, gradations, elevations,
levels of proximity to the heart.

Based on this, my choice has been made. Not  huge
in the realm of all, but major enough.
I've decided to move, to adhere to the pull
of family versus the pull of habit and familiarity.
Each decision of love is a trade,
to get this, let go of that.
Logic flawed where emotions rule,
irrational conclusion seems most real.

The decision made, now to carry it out.
Frankly, I hardly know how it came about.
But, the process begins of saying goodbye,
to the desert house near my mountains -
true loves.
I go closer to family,
true love and my blood.

In this transition I flow, and know
life treats us to little deaths, attempting
lessons for our final detachment.
Even little deaths are marked by fears,
by tears, a voyage to the unknown.
But, the decision made,

I go.





(Submitted to Poetry Jam.)


Yes, my husband and I have chosen to move closer to daughter, son-in-law and grandson. Their pull is strong. The transition will be gradual.  We'll stay in a small townhouse we own here in town, until our home sells.  We'll keep the townhouse and live intermittently between daughter and here.  Mother-in-law is still here in a nursing home and we have many friends.  Eventually, we'll probably leave for good.  Guess, we're prolonging the inevitable.  If this sounds a little crazy, it may be.  It may only make sense in our irrational way of thinking.  Wish me luck.

I haven't been posting much.  I've been processing this decision, dealing with the trepidation, the letting go and the going.  Also, imagining, hoping the future is good. No guarantees, right?

DAILY VALENTINE

Somewhere in California.

Amusing game.

Giving novel, symbolic gifts

demonstrating romance,

hopefully bringing sexy luck

on chocolate covered red day

of commercialized affection.

But love resides in the daily (extra)ordinary -

self-desires suspended or forgotten,

depth of sentiment so vast,

that sacrifice is unrecognised

in giving to the beloved.

Not really amusing,

an act so real.

No game.

(Submitted to Poetry Jam and G-Man's Friday 55)

Didn't mean to be so unromantic.  I dislike the commercialism of Valentine's Day, but I don't refuse the candy and flowers.  Hope you have true love in your life, not necessarily romantic love, just true love.  

RUMMINATIONS WHILE THE MUSE TAKES A SNOOZE

The blank page is intimidating.
Makes me think of my life and how I want to fill it.
With thoughts?
Electric substance firing energy into the ethers,
creating this earth, in my mind.
What do I create?
Sometimes smooth, flowing scenes of animals roaming freely in jungles,
of whales and dolphins communicating deeply about beauty,
leaving trails of rainbows as they leap,
of dogs each having a loving human to rely on unconditionally,
the way they know how to love.
It's delightful filling the blank this way.
But is it real?

Should I stop the fantasy?  Instead observe what happens
as children die, as animals are killed for fun - an exclamation of superiority,
as insanity prevails in warped Darwinian interpretation.
Atrocities, so many, keep repeating.

It's daunting, the blank.  Nothing.
Its emptiness full of possibility.
A paradox of sorts inviting polarities of
good, bad,
beauty, ugliness,
kindness, its absence
to fill it.

And I do each day, much depending
on how I angle it, where I stand,
what colors I chose.


(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)