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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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
Belated Words 