Every guy has to have his Eve; gal too, her Adam. If not an actual mortal, a blemish to blame; given, no, inserted undetectably and inoperably by God! "God made me do it: I had a really, really bad day!"
Author: Leo
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Don’t Blame Me, Blame Bug!
Hercules beetle -
Green Time
To this day, some 40-odd years past, still I can recall that instant of offense: a negative taken to a shop for enlargement and some clueless dudes’ snide comment, “There’s a lots of green in that shot man!” I probably blushed offering no defense. The photo; my son hop-splashing across shallow, cold rock gurgling Holly Creek in glee, startled water and he, frozen blurs of joyous motion deemed forever known. Suspended trees' and banks' radiant greens swaddling him in infinite hues of caring. Is there such a thing as too much green; over-abundant life? Are there cravings for hard-gray walls, rarefied and songless air, worlds existing in a mirrored box of self? Slap! “Little mosquito shit!” I wince as he takes a sip of me into eternal green time.
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memorial
Separation is the state of final acknowledgement of the absolute. Existing in relation to all, you cannot complete yourself but we will be here, remembering your name, speaking humbly, offering colorful ribbons and tears. Sacrifice is the act, the act that ends. Who made the choice is not the point to argue; you were chosen or made the choice yourself. Whether the cause was just or not or moot, something was required and you were loss. Now, you have that knowing that eludes us. Placated, soothed by ritualistic words, we read hollow text and embarrassed by uncouth grief and the shriek of loss we pray, speaking of the Ultimate Sacrifice; we whisper the name of that demigod. Here….we will never have that knowing. Guilt is the word, the word that tells; leaving no room for elaboration. We wrap your bones with no dreams in The Cave of the Devoured Prolifics. On occasion, we hear their soft clacking; lighting candles, we appease with chants. This is a reblog of an old poem which I am sadly reminded of every year.
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The Gifts
Ligustrum japonicum shivers outside my window; not from cold, but an attack of bees: Honey and Bumble. They, enticed and tethered by its hypnotic sweet scent, ravage and drink, humming hosannas in perfect key. White corollas falling flurries present sacred offerings for the soil bound; bounty from their nurturing deities. Bombus with so short a time to live, a mere few days, gifted their time now, at my window, to drink and sing!
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Clell, Now Taken
“1938 Clell” Mother's unpracticed, pencil-script: “1938 Clell” My Uncle Clell, nine...ten, thin and dirty blond; a look of meek compliance; a tiniest of smiles. “Please, Sir, I want some more.” comes to mind. He, mother's charge, while Paul the youngest still rode grannie's hip, rode the tail of mother's sack, her child cotton-picking sack, dragged row to row as an extra mass of whimpers or, at times, glee in giggling flings of parched dirt and bugs, as she pinched cotton from flesh slicing bracts; tinged-pink white wads stuffed in dragged bags through days’ searing, harsh yet banal rhythms. Mother confided passed an ever-present sad smile that getting just one orange on Christmas Day was a delight sweeter than a day chore-free, but one each for eight kids back then wasn’t cheap. Clell struggled getting off the sack. “Me off, sis!” But off, he did get “some more” through the years, pulling hard, creating tales thought a joyful smile, showering big sister with chocolates and oranges. Of the eight siblings only mother remains, now tugging gently her sweet sack of memories which grows lighter and lighter each day as she awaits her treat; the sweet, tart taste of promised reunions.
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dear virus
As you crawl away, you can take our pain
you used to douse sparkling instants of bliss,
but you can not take the sufferers for they
are ours to grasp in softly clenched hands.
As you crawl away, you can take our fear
you used to smother our days and dreams,
but you can not take our memories; they
are ours to place in view or to secret away.
As you crawl away, you can take absences
you used to dishearten, to foster our doubts,
but you can not take our joys in reunion for
they are our final admissions of our needs.
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acorn
one by one I pull
them out and toss them away
a hundred year life
to die in the sun
yanked hard from their acorn roots
just for space for blooms
my Mora clock chimes
encased in striated oak
a gift left to breathe
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My Book of Secrets
This book, this Book of Secrets, just revealed to me,
lay with the others; hidden, dust stifled, antiquated,
irrelevant, too long, too…piled in the “not now” bin.
Thumbing through; “Crap! I knew all this!” I smirked,but read another line, then more. Was I to truly believe
that bracing you against a fall at the bathroom mirror
as you wiped matter from your eyes, lamenting, what
you perceive, as the taint of time upon your face, andyour burst of anger at your confused thoughts, and
making one of my silly, hopefully calming, jokes
and kissing your matted-hair head, eliciting a smile,
a purr, almost, was my purpose, my nirvana? Maybe. -
sweet gum pods
Thursday:
It’s all gray against gray today.
Gray squirrels run high, hairline limbs
spidering from sweet gum silhouettes’
charcoal sketch against liquid lead clouds:
a seething sea/death gray pock-marked with
barbed seed pods floating like mines
in wait of gray hulled ships
to surprise and explode to brilliant yellow.
Even an anonymous death could brighten this day.
Sunday:
The moment so precious,
yet…..called,
I rise, with expletive, to abandon
the sun and grackles swarm the trees
jeering my concessions,
shaming me,
plopping sweet gum pod’s
barbed, brown blessings,
on a god’s green grass
and my sinner’s head.
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Walking Fuzz 2
October’s crisp wind and golden sun
long held hostage far into November
finally made release, fled detention
and Fuzz drags me up Chevelle Drive
for our daily inspection of Redneckville
joyful in his visions of scent pursuit,
seeing things I can’t even imagine, while
I chase just one untainted glimpse of bliss
passed Grand Prix Blvd onto Bonneville
and a beer-bellied neighbor pretends not
to see us. “Great day!” I holler, loudly,
eliciting a Sam Elliot limp like wave as he
poses before a flittering Trumpbo banner.
Suns’ warmth pulls us further up the hill
through ditch’s trash and desiccate weeds
expanding our collection of beggar’s lice
and across from Really-loud-Mustang guys
a cast off bag of Cuties, over-ripe delights,
and I stand and peel and devour, for show.
Fuzz in ecstasy jerks my leash to go and
I clutching my rescued Cuties relent and
grudgingly we retrace our happy steps the
breeze hard against our backs, bittersweet,
pushing me to end my brief get away and
I pray, well, just hope, I don’t really pray,
she did not forget and get up and fall. Yea!
She’s fine reclining in her chair, alert buzzer
not screaming, competing with the Bee Gees
Jive Talkin‘ for the umpteenth time and
“Hun, the nursing home called three times;
I forgot how to answer the damn phone!”
I always take the phone. Why not today?
Belated Words 