An apiarist, a priest and a carpenter walked into a bar.
OK. What happened then?
A cellist walked in, opened his case and shot them with his AR-15.
OK. Why just those three?
He was stung by a bee, touched by a priest and his father was a carpenter.
OK. Was that his trial defense?
Oh, never caught and the three weren’t regulars, anyway.
OK. Did you just make all that up?
What’s your job? Gotta go, due at the Symphony Hall.
Author: Leo
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the flow
Days flow in incandescent, pollen-tinted light
moment by hour by millennium unstoppable;
sinuously hand in hand with time, their free arms
throw outward, chests pump to boast of being one
with the flow’s blasting bellow of life heard only
mutely by us, whispering under our constant din
of rants, proclamations and squeals of whiny ills.
As the river scrounges, ravishing, stealing
fish cavern walls from beneath its own banks
that hinder the flow it knows no purpose only
the god of movement’s flood. Stopping is death.
The mother oak by strength and massive reach
commands her hill only by chance and entrée
by tenacious grasp of Gaia’s breast sucking
the flow of mother’s milk. Her mammoth face
in breeze sings praise. The flow, not by beat,
but by constancy plays the melody of her song.
This is a slightly revised version of a poem originally posted in October 2012. I am slowly adding photos to each old post and, in a sense, reliving past memories and experiences; some sweet, some not so much.
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Fire
Memories do blanch, change, slip to nonexistence
but one still remains clear as a straight razor edge.
1953 probably. 1st grade, small wood, rural rental
with an old outhouse...but we had running water!
At my new school we had "duck and cover" drills and
every Sunday service the preacher screamed at me
words directly from God; if deemed an unbeliever,
I would endure forever a lake of fire and brimstone.
My dreams of fire came at night way before I slept.
I knew my small bed and handmake quilts offered
no protection, only a sweaty taste of fire to come
as I clutched them in fear tightly around my neck.
One way or the other, I was destined to be burned,
by The Bomb or by my inability to accept gods will;
to be a red seething char as those in our coal stove,
only screaming with all the others in our agony.
I am no longer six. I am 76. Accepting the inevitable
is a process accomplished by most; a natural process,
not taught in schools. I went to a funeral home today
and purchased a prepaid cremation plan. Hello, Fire! -
Visitors At The Nursing Home
A resident, new to me, chair-paddled into the room with long, flat feet padded in doubled hospital socks. Enthralled by the new arrivals face, I fell to silence, allowing mother to resume her private communion with her other son unseen by either of us in 15 years. The new she, yes, a she, floated diaphanously in, as if fresh from the make-up trailer on a movie set of a ghost-tale or a horror flick, ready to kill her scenes; mumbling the lines of her lone perfected character oblivious to all but her muse and her scripted tale. Huge cheekbones drooped to tiny, pointed chin; all sheathed in the thinnest, palest of white skin fragile as a gossamer clouds feel. Corn silk hair, white not golden, clung scantily to a slick scalp. But the eyes, her eyes dispelled my brief fantasy. Her eyes, a Matisse light-blue commingling with sparks of light whiter than God, danced with joy, speaking a stunning, rare tongue of their own as she listened and conversed with her invisible visitor who sat, stood, hovered joyously confirming all her truths. The words her visitor showered on her could not be belittled. All were accepted without doubt as true: professions of love, devotion, her reimagined life. Raising, then lowering her hands daintily, her eyes and mumblings fell silent. She chair-paddled away. Mother's head lifted, her own excited eyes shining; Your brother just spoke to me! He and two other men have been traveling the world all these past years! His friends pay for everything! He said to tell you Hi! Offering a weak side to side hand wave, I said, Hi!
-
Memories: The Final Edit
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.
-
Found Food
All Vegan of course! Eggplant Roulade with Sweet Potato Cheese Sauce and Bread and Butter Pickles 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.
Tofu and Eggplant Stir-fry 
Bread and Butter Pickles 
Yellow Squash Casserole with Sweet Potato Cheese Sauce.
-
My Anthem to Poetry
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.
-
Gaia Light and Such
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.
-
Sharp Edges
Sharp edges have gotten my number, certainly, my blood type, reflex rate (hyporeflexia) and charted my pathways. They know my recipes requiring knives or graters and linger in anticipation. They fight for primacy on my workbench. I expect them there; see them lurking. They can’t hide and are really pissed! I cherish my scars; each Ouch! a cue, a precious possibility of life to come.
-
My Shadow Knows
My Shadow knows or does he? He does not always mimic me; his job supposedly. I notice, at times he hides out of the light. What's he doing there; giggling, dozing or plotting an insurrection? At other times, walking with me, his movements go errant. A test? More likely, he's making fun of me! Look at him! A slight hunched over, a tiny stagger in his mimicking steps! He's playing Elderly! He's not funny!
Belated Words 