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!
Goldfinch ravishing the sunflowers! Too much yellow!
Too loud; his song demanding…screeching: Me! Me!
Entertaining, but not subtle enough for beauty? Maybe.
Though there are truths he does parade; offering for a fee.
Can beauty only be the delicate; truth only glaring?
“The truth is ugly!” “You can’t handle the truth!”
A curve of flesh, real, depicted or imagined can still
Elicit bliss; the intuited joy of the incorruptible line.
Gastrocnemius, Soleus, Iliotbial, Peroneus enfolded;
The legs perfection of muscle, tendon, bone and skin.
Middle-aged crisis guy entranced by a woman’s legs;
Her elongated neck’s porcelain skin, shiver releasing.
Does need dictate the beauty we see…becoming our truths?
Truth might be beauty; perceived beauty our only truths.
Why search purposefully fabricated, lying walls,
That trashy sweet gum, this August depletion;
Listening for the….A…purveyor of truth?
Again, I enact this sweet, silencing ritual
With little nuance; certainly with no perfection.
With paper…neatly creased, and pen gently held
I smile, waiting for Muse to tweak the light.
Muse is our deliverance…or…our false prophet;
Which? “Ignorance is bliss.” Just give me light!
I’ll stick that sign at the end of the drive
Monitoring any respond…spying through
Cracks at the sides of shades, now drawn,
Which, unlike my neighbors’, were raised
Night and day in defiance of hidden lives.
Must I place items neatly on slackly shelves
Or will the sign itself be enough to summon
What I am seeking….and what am I craving;
A grimace, a laugh, a Jehovah’s Witness tract;
A splintered door jamb and feet rushing in?
What would adorn a shelf, entice another,
That they would not already have, though,
Perhaps, deny? My truths, though clean,
Sparkling spirals to me are likely idiocy
To them as theirs to me. The sign is enough.
We all bear witness, self-sworn daily,
speaking our lies, shinier than truth;
painting ourselves, molding a visage
of reflections from fouled mirrors.
We profess enlightenment yet cling
to darkness choosing each sin care-
fully writing new, discreet definitions.
What is written will endure; flourish.
Our heart’s script perishes with flesh.
Must there be a differentiation, a notedness,
an elevation above, a falling below, a middling?
Does Gaia favor fierce or meek, exotic or plain?
Does ranking serve our need to condescend?
I resist the rant when the phrase is proffered,
again and again, naming us ordinary people.
I will let my beast strut, flaunt my plumage;
flare my hand-painted hackles and post a selfie.
I knew you would come today! I knew.
They’re good to me here, really, they are.
They’re not the same though……as family.
Have you seen your brother? That rascal!
Can’t come to see his old Mama…ha, ha!
Is he retired like you? Can’t afford it,
I guess. I would send him money to come.
I still have some money don’t I? Well…..
How long have I been here? Five years!
It only seems a few months. They are
good to me here. I would not stay if they
were mean to me…I would go home today.
A new place, I mean…..I know I can walk
but they won’t walk me anymore…help me
up, to try. Well, then…I guess I’ll stay…they
are good to me here. I would leave if not.
I sat by the window this morning…the trees
they are dogwood…aren’t they…are beautiful.
Is it warm outside? They keep it so cold in here.
I need a new jacket. See, my sleeve is torn.
Yes frayed… well then, whenever you can.
Let me tell you…this morning…sitting there
at the window watching the trees…dogwoods,
I had the most wonderful feeling I’ve ever felt.
God said we would feel that way in heaven
all the time…every minute of endless days!
I can’t wait to see your Daddy there again.
You have a baby sister in heaven too, waiting.
God told me it was a girl. The doctor couldn’t
tell back then…I was just a month along or so.
Something happened….I never would cause it.
Your Daddy and our baby are watching for us.
But she might be grown now; raised in heaven
by your sweet Daddy! Who knows how it works
up there. Raised in Heaven! She would be a true
angel. Something we can never be…you and me.
Spiraling upward
un-touching entwination
in flittering flight
nothing to repent
they cherish what is given
synched as wind and chime
August eight: the truth has yet to be told:
a year, leaked away drop by stale drop,
has only left toxic staining spots.
They glare and moan with rubbing.
Perhaps the truth will never be told;
the telling: soothing balm or albatross,
a healing or a festering more vile;
the undoing more hurtful than the doing?
Belated Words 