Once again, the Final Edit begins; a rearrangement...Cut...Copy...Paste...Delete and regretted words are revised, changed...denied. Perhaps, they or I said that but meant the other; new words I just remembered; was it just a joke! Ha! Ha! Did I appear to be laughing? Anyway: a beginning is always the beginning and the ending is never, ever really the ending.
Fuzz saw, no, smelled it first, the cruel pile of dumped vegetables across our street's ditch in brushes edge. A couple of deep sniffs and, not enthralled, he yanked my leash to leave. Vegetables, still pee-free, were not enticing. "Waite!" I snapped, offering a Milk Bone to halt retreat. Cucumbers, yellow squash, even eggplant lay among a scattering of pinkish sweet potatoes. Inspecting the trove, I found only one eggplant past saving; the rest lay yearning for fruition. The suspect perps live across the street, but were gone. "Dammit!" I wanted them to witness my smile as I stuffed three cucumbers in my pockets and hastily returned with an Ingles bag to save the discarded; glorying in my self-righteous.
Yellow Squash Casserole with Sweet Potato Cheese Sauce.
Having neither reference nor degree I’m untethered to roam, to render free, my taste, my smell, my guts in poetry or song: iambs so sweet or sugary rhyme, or esoteric muddle out of time. The choice is mine as is the reward; to grin, to whisper, “Yes! Yes!” at rare sweet morsels of insight, of pithy delight. Too modest-shy to claim the honor “Poet”, I’ll wait for it to be bestowed, or not, and labor quiet, content, secure, alone. If when I’m gone, melted but for bone, a soul, naïve or informed, should say, “He was a poet you know”, I’ll bone clack in my eternal sleep and hiss through dust “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
It’s hard to believe this blog has been around for eleven years. My Anthem was included in my first post and still residues on the About page. It expresses what I felt then, what I still do and hopefully will as long as I can maintain some semblance of cognition. Belated Words has helped me through many tough times like those we all must endure.
Drenching us in golden sheets of birthing scents Gaia rustles us awake, aware to lift our heads and sniff her tactile sky of soothing intoxicates. We close our smiling eyes, caressing the moment. Kakia too does lift her nose to sniff, but fearing being seen, quickly jerks her head away to hide that twinge of delight she so distains and denies; her repressed smile contorts her face in pain. But Gaia sees all; even those flickers of Hope on Kakia's face and ours before we try to cast them aside; to be buried in our vaults of need and greed. All allures could not blanch todays golden sheets.
Ink 245XL Black tops my list along with Rx at CVS and a succulent mix at Lowes. Also, to visit mother at the nursing home; donning mask, shield, gown and blue gloves. To give her chocolate ice cream and candy. Also, take wild-child Blue for due shots. Writing down doesn't ensure task completion; I may leave in a rush or pissed-off state without the list, without my debit card, without the will to fulfil this humble list. Ink245XL Black was missed on the list! Everything else, more or less, was fulfilled. Mother, a clump of sadness, grinned and grabbed for a hug, wondering, silently, why I am the only one to every come to visit. Blue-eyed Blue enthralled the vet's helper; too bad, I'm not young...cruising for chicks. Back to Ink 245XL Black: I really do need this to finish printing copies of all my stuff stuck in the Cloud; all my poems and a few stories. The Cloud could disappear despite Experts' arguments. Some Experts worship god Chaos. Clouds like stars implode; more like vanish, dissipate, some showering cooling blessings while others are never seen, touched or known. These pages are mine to clutch. Some garnered a few Likes and occasionally, rare praise from a Non-Expert; not their real intended purpose. Oh! to once again caress a Goddess Muse; say Yes! I remember! to what I feel in my memories hands.
I Love Dirt! Even when poor, bland, dusty gray,
malnourished with no visible creatures crawling,
it is striving, maneuvering, clawing for sustenance
which we humanoids doltishly claim---and destroy
as ours in our ignorance of life's cycles and needs.
Dirt life will survive. Microbes are the living flow
with an innate Atlas persistence stronger than ours,
a will to live, to build by devouring---then sharing
a bite here, a bite there, yielding a crunch to savor
for them and for us; a taste of hope on craving lips.
A persistence of billions of living, moving lives
flow unseen by our minds and eyes, self-duped to
cherish only ourselves, not Archaea, Bacteria, Fungi,
Virus, Protists or any of those "creepy nasty things"
which are our true Creators, Sustainers and only Hope.
Redbird on waxleaf privet branch calls as he has a billion times past; enticing. Cheer--cheer--cheer--pretty--pretty we mimic, but what is he really saying; mere yakking, indoctrination, concert or berating, teasing, making fun of me as I sit in my closed windowed-box feeling belittled for my lack of a song? Swaying leaves, twitching penumbra, cast by light through my window, dance upon my dull blue wall to an ancient choral refrain. Even leaf-light has a song! What is my song? I don't know the words, the rhythm, the rhyme, the point of worth. Was the first song a mere utterance of awe; wonderment in the presence of sunlight. "Ah! Ah!" will be my song! I sing to the leaves and they freeze for just an instant to listen. Then, crackling into brilliant light slivers, they resume their own soft, dancing song.
I saw an eagle today; not on the nest web-cam I check daily now, but soaring an invisible draft, circling our neighborhood, rising, tipping down, gliding to a near red oak limb revealing in glinting light unique white “bald” head, tail and demeanor. With apt aplomb he dismissed two raucous crow's rantings as they stomped and strutted near limbs. Three swipes of his yellow, hooked beak against his supporting limb and the cursing duo quickly took note, lifting, darting west “as the crow flies” leaving only me and Fuzz to stare; bear witness. Ditch-stink charmed Fuzz; I was in awe alone. Did eagle give me a nod as he glanced my way, arching huge wings for a forward, lifting jump, fanning white, tail-feathers in silent ascension? It seemed to me, there was a mutual greeting; respect hoped for, valued, but not demanded. I would have given a salute if I did such things. We have hope; faith in ultimate good we clutch as a faultless anthem, sang softly, only in sky. afterstanza: Now, another year has flown passed that red oak and I still check out that empty January grey limb. Awe has waned, Fuzz limps and a question remains, only now acknowledged, a yellow beak ripping me: Are there really only Predators and Prey and which....
Forty-odd years, a smidge of time to fungi; its hidden place and past just now revealed: a gentle sinking of soil, a couple feet across, and just overnight a magical cluster has risen. From the depression, Armillaria tabescens ascends in pale ochres and soft red-browns, honey mushrooms, to seek and tease light, and us, for two or three days at most before melting back to a bioluminescence world and the long forgotten, nourishing stump devoured and reincarnated in their galaxy of patient life and humming green light.
Beauty is the line; the delineation, the conformation, the defining from the tumult of the scene. Beauty is defined. Beauty is what is lusted for. Beauty is what is never obtained for the line is changed by the taking. Beauty is not virtue. Beauty is the line of the bowed head and cupped hands in the presence of virtue. Beauty is an ugly word. Say it. It has been destroyed for us, by us; its connotations pimped, fouled. Sensuous is the line. Say it! Is it not ....beautiful? Ha! Ha! Feel the lines your lips define. Say it! Sensuous is the word that defines the line; the inner line from upper thigh to Medial Malleolus. Sensuous are the lines that define receding, undulating ridges falling away from green to blue to gray mist. Sensuous is the line. Sensuous is the line by what it defines. Sensuous is the line
Belated Words 