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.
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.
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
She would appear way down our dirt road
at the turn-off, leaving a quarter mile more
to walk to our house; ample time to run, get
mother and for her to get her saved change,
put away weekly in her left dresser-drawer.
Momma! Momma! The Avon Lady’s coming!
Lugging two big black satchels, yanked her
arms down, rounded shoulders, trudged her
gait, but she never wavered, never stopped.
Her long dresses, dark, austere; dark as those
high-tops and thick, opaque wrinkled hose
amazed a near-naked kid in steamy, white air.
I never saw any evidence of the woman-things
she sold on her face or arms of weathered skin
or her unadorned, piercing…..unblinking eyes.
Her brimmed straw-hat sprinkled her plainness
with points of white light, seemingly, seeping
from within, bathing her existence in radiance.
It was a fear of failing, forced to face
the truth so blithely drown by hiding dreams
in days and tossing nights that held my place
in time, banality, or so, it seemed.
Always the thought was there: to write, release
the only thing I owned uniquely mine;
my take, but excuses would never cease
to take their toll; depleting pride and time.
But age at last with fingers raised to take
a pulse along my neck with icy tips
on wrinkled skin did startle me awake;
so now, alone for hours with moving lips,
I sit composing verse and smile and fret
and curse, but never do I feel regret.
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
Belated Words 