I remember a horrid infant: the creation of rabid men, a concoction of desires, ideas and secret process devoid of conscience. They thought the riddle was solved: The forfeiture of a fraction for the good of the whole. But the whole was demeaned; the part was not consumable and refused to lie in silence as mere charred bone.
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!
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.
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 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....
never
a strange belittled concept usually
kicked aside ignored as if never uttered
a misunderstanding a muttered hasty response
oh yes I know but things have changed
we must reassess our priorities change gears
a typo inserted hurriedly as he stood reciting
brusquely dismissing from behind his mask
attempted input the numbers the meld score
will tell us more in two weeks typing inserting
you in the forever known never to be removed
at his squeaky mobile lectern he pushed
to his next tiny room off his tiny hallway
bumping clunking denting cheap door facings
his blue plaid stefano ricci shirt unimpeded
by lab coat the brightest thing in the building
on the street in the city in the tri-state area
I will never read that line to you as written
from patient education and instructions section
of pages pushed to us as I pushed your chair
bumping tiny room walls off the tiny hallway
he too hurried a coward to say never to our faces
never be a LT candidat e
the e left to dangl e ther e
never to be corrected
alon
e
The leaves are gone. Wind rejoices in Their leaving for their dance betrays; Painting hints of body on his shame. Shoulders cringe under iced breath ravaging this frigid, emptying street. Chimes to the right sing winds intent, To flee this memory, falling behind, To allow us to lie in a contrived bliss Like those wreaths on those graves.
The leaves are gone. Wind rejoiced in their leaving for their dance betrayed: painting hints of body on his shame. A witness of this carnage, he whirled in helplessness, sharing horrid chaos with us despite our hands over our ears. Shoulders cringe beneath iced-breath ravaging this frigid, manicured yard. Chimes to the right sing winds intent to flee this memory, fall far away, to lie in a contrived complacency like these plastic wreaths on these graves.
“What is this weather in my soul?
This nameless weather:
Squirrel’s flag-tail pulsating
A silent, nil day.
Exceptional drought……
memory’s ceaseless loop roils;
turkey vultures soar.
poor:
The word itself appears dried up,
too scantily clad to survive,
too striped of bone, devoid of desire;
no evident, attendant Bling!
bling: a none-existent word back then
all through the slow, long years of youth
when we said fancy-stuff, as in,
“Who really wants that fancy stuff?”
licking our lips in blusterous denial.
I don’t remember being poor or “pour”
as I would have said back then….and still do.
Daddy always worked long, hard hours,
burnt dark pumping gas…fixing flats.
We always had a rust-free, used car
staunchly devoid of Bling! except
that ’59 Chevy with fender-skirts
and air and re-upholstered seats!
We always had a house; tiny but clean,
clapboarded, rural rentals with,
in my earliest years, an outhouse,
but in my room, in the darkest spot,
a child’s white enameled pot with
a red-rimed lid was kept for me;
I did have a pot to piss in.
I did not feel so different
because of that….I did not know
the reason I felt singular.
I remember first grade school bus
and being called sunk-eyes; me,
the poster kid for sickly-child
with breath pilfering asthma,
a snot-rag dampening my pocket
during the glories of Spring and Fall
and being alone, balled-up,
in a paint-peeled Adirondack
built from scrap and hope by dad
in a rented yard in brilliant sun,
and wondering if pollen had
attacked my heart as it had
my nose and lungs and eyes
and infected hope, stolen joy
and would I ever unclasp my knees
and unfurl my wheezing mind.
Belated Words 