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!
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!
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.
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-fryBread and Butter Pickles
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.
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 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!
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.
Belated Words 