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!
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.
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.
Belated Words 