I stood for hours
watching the seep
the trickle down drain
 to hear you move above
       and I was drunk for days

but that was once -
and once is a very long word
that’s not forgotten

that you should think
the world is flat by means
of arrogance and never give
birth to voyage unslurred

  Instead -
I busy myself pantried
stock shelves rearranged
and mummer the proper response
in mourning a greet

there’ll be no birds today
no sense of scavenge as
even the carp feeds bottomed

So quiet this, so very, very strong. Gonna pick this later, Nora.

milner

A powerfull poem, indeed, Nora!
Vasile

2. (unfinished)

I saw her that day
pyrexed on glassed
she’d all but failed this side of nuts
having picked almonds rather than arsenic
and so
         the rat returned
 
but for bread -
she'd fold herself doweled unleavened
and blow like when to nibbled

(maybe no and  we'll see, maybe no rat,  I'm thinking again . . . finally!)

Controversing

Echo the when to rise
in rumbled sleet dispelled

   forsaking clack
          as the birch no longer peels
                   excepting mind

No
 it's not raining love
but it was - below freezing

Carrot Cake Red

It’s time to go home
she’s always saying that
a metronome of monotone
grating my nerves like carrots
shredding her hair now ashed

Carrots -
because the ache flows
backwards from heart
down the arm to clinch regarding
three cups but -
we’re not making any cake

There’ll be no upside slap
no dab of tear floured bridge
in  Momma I can’t   because
this time she means it and -
 this time  -   I’m grown

Forest was wrong
it’s not like chocolate
it’s like gingerbread
always sugar-coated
but underneath
it’s hard and
peppery

Load the brush
as the canvas is blank
But platelets grow thick
squeezed from tubes arterial
and hearts are overdone
breeding ruse

Genetics unknown
a three-legged dog
opens to stand empty

It blinks
reoccurs the line to the left
changing from pink to green
and today is not present
at all . . .
 
I am speaking of my screen
the pop of a laptop titanium cased
driven by inconsistency and
I wonder at rebellion

Rebellion
because I’ve never dropped it
but many
the times I’ve scrubbed it -
clean . . .


Bound


Absent,
the run of fingers against wrist
fading the scar forgotten
covered by lines of aging
and turning her watch inward
as if the face
should never be displayed

Purple,
the flowers found
on a miniature saucer
meant for dolls
but porcelain-
 in content

She snapped it clean in half -
severed the last vestige
and would have bled outright
if not -
for the pulse within

It was not hers
 to take . . .
It never was.

Thirty years later
she opens the box-

Christmas,
and the first set of
brand new dishes
she's ever had -

A hundred piece set
given by -
the pulse . . .

Purple,
they're solid purple
no flowers attached.



* I'm going to run "bound" by another site, I know it's a bit obscure, (more than that yes) still, I'm going to.. . BUT - I'm not going to delete it, NO!  I know what it means -I may not be able to make others see it but I know what it means and I'll continue to poke it a bit.

This side of Ugly

This side of ugly I can’t begin to explain
      but it comes from having everything and nothing. . .

Nothing, nothing at all . .
    She towered,
              towered above vindictive.

     Past the church suppers, the red pea-coat, and the matching dresses I so admired, she reigned.  I loved her, still do. . .and nothing will devastate me more than her loss. . .

Letter to you

Dear Mom,
     I wish you could explain the workings of children to me, how one loves you forever and one doesn’t.  I really want to know.   I never beat my kids, though often, I was, unfair.  In all  there is - I never stomped their head fracturing a cheek and causing damage to the eye, I never did.
     But then, then - they never raised a hand, never knocked me down backwards down the stairs, never forged six hundred dollars in checks to run off to Tulsa and dance in a bar only to return and have me pay for private schooling . . .
     I skipped a year for all of that, I was smart you see, and the scholarships rolled right in.  You went without a coat, took a menial job and boosted the family income.  I could be saved. Yes, indeed.
     I cast a glance upwards Momma, at the “me” in paragraph two - I meant “you” of course, I was an English major once. . . once….and I have forgotten all without cost as you enabled me to do so.
     Yes, yes, yes, yes - for all that occurred, the pulling of hair, the weather stripping, the broom, for whatever lay handy by means of control, you loved me and I - HATED YOU - for years. .
     “Splain to me Lucy”  please, please, please, explain.
                                                                                 Love always,
                                                                                                  your daughter.

p.s. maybe a butcher knife at midnight when just past fifteen?, guess not, they’re grown.  I held their childhood precious and they love you the same as I - but not me momma, not all of them, some of them don't even begin to love me. AND, I was never mean. You're lucky, so very, very, lucky.  I did all you said . . .I really did. . .but - I was different - just like you said.

If only I could splain to my own mother or my daughter whichever.

Speaking of trees,

    this winter’s been fairly mild.  Play-acting at ice, makeup removed in twenty-four without curtain for stance.  But there- to the left of the porch, the pussy willow fell snapped.
     She sat garbed in bright pink, turtle neck turned augmenting the presence of frail, as her legs have long been useless but lend a pinch of depth to maroon slacks and failed knee replacements grown fused.
     I should have stopped right there, bundled her up and out the door, but instead . . . instead, I stood mesmerized, recalling the day it was planted and all the years before, between, and after.

      Spring, an unfenced yard clean-out to the neighbor’s cornfield, a red pea-coat with a matching headband and winter’s last stand chilling the breeze in denial.  A snapshot of me and my brothers, before the baby was born or even thought of, where the back porch was non-existent and a set of six windows shone inward matching the front.
     We lived in a cape cod, that’s what they called it anyway, the style of the house I mean.  Six panes of glass, bottom to top, opened the light to the living room and kitchen, both sides, front to back, set directly across from each other.  The kitchen windows would soon come out to be replaced by patio doors and the front would be fitted for glass shelves on which to place knick-knacks. It was the reason we were there - fresh out of the hospital she wanted to run by the old house and have me clean those shelves . . .
     Years ago, we had three elm trees. Two, sat abut the property line with spireas forming a  fence between and on both sides after.  The other sat midway, a corner stone to the garden offset by five fruit trees, and what would eventually be the porch.  It was here my father planted the pussy willow, when we were all grown and the garden was covered in grass.  Where nary a fruit tree remained and there was no longer a need for preserves or spreading the jam equal, as the summer of their lives had passed and flown off like maple wings tucked between lips sounding.
     Spring, and I stood thinking of how- if- it’d survived- the buds would echo the color of her eyes mid-January, clouded by illness . . .and it hurt.  Hurt more than the time I begged my brothers to play ball and the ball flew up to rest atop the trash cans.  They said, the only way I could play - was to crawl up there and get it.  We had barrels, (big oil drums really) and halfway in hoisting myself up, one of my brothers yanked my ankle and I came out missing two teeth . . .

                                               "the front ones."

to the left lie patterns


the drift of twist in
winter undefined
snags against finger-
combed strands
and lingers the moon
chestnut

but what of the fire?

the blaze grows white
a generation passed
in boughs of silence

Nora,

I will need to come back to this, but at first read, I really like the feeling it leaves with me.  And yet, I can't seem to articulate why....

Laura

I like it, too. A beautiful poem of reflection.

It is the madness of who
you are.  The underlying silt
coppered rudd. 

Four-and-twenty shoaled
to gather the wool from black 
on a stool of plum’s appendage
and breathe deeply the ash . . .

Just love it, Nora.

milner

He calls -
because - she’s home.

hair in a wad with nary a comb in sight
crowning her   “cave-dweller” 
where paint splatters a pair of new jeans in
a  silhouette of laughter canvas-bound immune.

she’s home- most definite,
from the snap of her gum and the
“what’da ya want?” echoing glee as
she answers the phone knowing . . .

Knowing the space has opened
a break in thundering Thor and
the strength that holds her mallet past
the odyssey of fables where truth
renders her helpless regardless "of  gods"
          and somehow -
                           somehow -
                                         she’s mended-
                                                           the fissure.

But - he is agnostic you know . .
the anchor that holds
and she loves him
 - all the more.

(Five a.m. and a kiss to
 the lips of insanity. .)

I was twelve-
twelve beneath cowered
listening to spew as even
I wiped her ass . . .

Love -
love is not hearts
nor flowers strewn in
blissful unawares
but rots altogether in
 swamps most foul 
with laden humidity . . 

For there -
the mimosa waves.

He speaks of fifty,
carving the carp from scales
as pennies rise in unknown wishes
and emptied wells.

Another plate, glass, or fork.
Perhaps a bit of pot turns
the  SOS  silent-

She really doesn’t know,
it falls outside
the rub.


 

inside out ideas. sad and nice.

morning-
and there were all those spoons
waiting to be fed in a house
without children
 
so-
she plowed the back yard
combing her hair in tiers
relieving the weight as
even the fall holds green

Yes to this

enjoyed. Great images.

e

Petri-dished bureaucracy

endless bags open and shut
where illness prevails
mid-wintered with dreams
of dying
 

      certainly, not the best time to change careers, and though the flow amassed comes easy  I find myself freezer-burned.  genetically removed without choice, dreaming of names, birthdates, insurance, and the lack thereof.  Medicare's a joke, so smile when telling them no and pray they come back on the twenty-third.  pray the old man can still see to drive without his drops for glaucoma, or - that after he pays for cab fare- he can still afford them. . .  yes, yes, yes, I know it’s a stretch, but I just hope I go quick . . .

(and I wanted something easier to do- how ironic)

silently curled
the rain accosts the panes
in drawn thunder

and though it makes
no sense
she gathers it in
for quilting

put your beads away

an early phone call
where the tangle of laughter
disregards grey in
“dadda play some skin”

“Lynyrd Skynyrd”  I say.

corruption's a plus giggled
followed by apologies

I woke to words momma

stretched beneath soft
a binding curls chin-tucked
in thoughts of you . . .

circles and stars
the frayed pastels
a piecing of childhood
wrapped in warmth

cliché momma
we spoke of it once
where woodpeckers carved
artichokes from stumps and
frost was the crunch of grass
beyond breaking . . .

unfinished -
by means of
a snuggle lost

inverted as always
leaning towards belly-buttons
and wondering why
I never asked which

:-) fascinating images to conjure with

e

just another day


pulling the crockpot
she thinks of years
the yesterdays passed
in receiving
a gift from her brother

it’s dirty of course
leftover from two days
and a shift of ten

working she was working
and running her hands over
thinks of paint

later, she says,
after corned beef and
the cow that died in
cabbaging ‘and’

"come back monday"

and one of my doritos is
an asteroid burnt black
how very odd . . .

I suppose it serves me right
given my unavailed wink
towards meds
and
ninety- three
bucks

Three days,
six pills,
and one dorito for
tax purposes

I ate  it  of course
but really -
I think I'll frame the pills

morning -
and there are eyes behind eyes
preparing for smiles

one and the same
constantly errant

as the infomercials fade
to biography’s - but -
bacteria thrives unadorned
with a suckling of power
from Oreck’s edge

the day
will bring dispensation
in child-proof caps and
sympathy-laced Purell

but -
the eyes behind eyes
might find you ungrateful
in the knowledge of self

if only 
it were
 that simple . . .

the vacuum of lines
your blood pressure pills
and Viagra



tsk, tsk, tsk, the flu is not so tough- flippin idiots, there isn't any cure
 I'm feeling rather mean and can't wait to be done with whiners
 
ten to six, with a need to call-in  but no, I'll go, and smile, smile, smile . . .
and not one shall miss me next week but for the inconvience of wait -
Gawd! I'm such a bitch today . . . it must be nerves

the echo of
continuum


a plague of mulberries
feeding off ash and
wobbled Dumpty's

where pop -
is  never weaseled
nor rolled to the grass
in laughter

still . . .
I think such things
wooling the sheep
in gerunds.


    an infantry of expletives arduously wrought in imbecile!  the navigation down stairs and the warmth of something internal beats flush to hand while lighting the fire . . . but I am cold you see, cold with stiff, and I intend to vacuum my joints released.  “the echo of continuum” -a plague upon yesterday morn . . .certainly, not, the drivel above - but - more . . .
     I heard it you see, heard it in the lift of semi from the table to the bed, where they thought I said- “water” but really it was “paper” - and now,  now I can’t recall a single word other than the title.  (maybe I was talking to myself and that's what it means - the long and the short of slant)  Oh sure, I'm beginning to get a bit of flash now that the bedpan’s chucked, so I said “Listen up Humpty! Who do you think you are, Pharaoh?”  oh well, there’s always tomorrow . . after nursery rhymed meds and the curl (one surely must find) in quilts. 

"Give us a jot and I'll promise to be good" said the girl, but the muse was not amused.

sugared it falls
molasses on streets
crunching the cars
like peanuts

. . .well, that was this morning and now it’s not.  I slithered my way over to do a few hours in the pharmacy and came home again napped.  Though most of my day was spent perched on a stool, I can’t begin to grasp my fatigue. . .  but then, my children are Sesame Street characters excavating age, so there it is - it must be that. . .and I come back to the eye poke . . .
      the poke of that boy, that boy, that boy -  Welsh, or something, she said.  (my youngest girl)  She likes him. Quite the anomaly that is, and not because she said so, but because lately  . . .she’s often with him.  Oh you know, they’re working on categorizing ancient Guyana fishing spears,  housing them,  recording dates and origin, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, bullshit.  (they're made of wood entire)
      They were shopping for mac-n-cheese she said, but together outside the phone, they spoke French . . . and why are we eating off hotplates hmmm? yes, yes, I see . . . the museum doesn’t have kitchen facilities. (it also has  no roommates barring the dead)   I didn’t even know they still made hotplates, must be another relic to hold their interest in tact.  Sleep, I need sleep before we discuss Europe. . .they could visit both families, hers and his - but mostly gather a right thesis.   R- - I- -G - -H - -T . . . where the T is stuck to my throat..  Yes, that's it, stuck “to” and not “in” as I’ve yet to swallow the yarn.

February 21.

     it was there in the bathroom, the dust on the television screen and the loose swipe I’d made towards came begging for swirled . .  and I thought of bleach - backed in the splash of whitewashed where grout stood creamed but flecked imperfection.  Yes, I said  flecked  and not  lack  or any other deviant of such - because - because . . . how  is it possible to define?  the imperfection, I mean.  Surely, one must hold flecks of both to find lack. 
      babble, babble, babble, something best left for leather bound . . .“my insanity” is what I call it, though manure would suit pies, I keep it all the same- handwritten, scrawled in a blackbird’s cawed philosophy . . .
     ^
     That was yesterday, and today, I  find it waiting without cause as  I am   no longer there.  Not forgotten by any means, but- choice, yawns forward.  I think of books I’ve read, discussions held, and wind myself back to dreaming . . . I was . . .dreaming . . .

   (“you need to take care of yourself dad”  - yes, but she needs me.)

     The flit, sewn in blank pockets - where the mind wanders the rooms of making.  A militia of crisp corners on beds without sheets.  Bounce a quarter girl, a nickel deposit with change to spare in the assault of bubbles slid brown.  Coca-Cola, and Coppertone pigtails in the wave of apples. (except once - they were cherries)
      A poolside snap, baby-doll styled, cherries on white with red bottoms.  I’d just passed my life saving course short of drowning.  Luck of the draw -  and as luck would have it, I’d drawn the largest of male instructors for saving. . . I still choke to the back of it years later.
      I think of this because maybe the bleach from yesterday holds . . . no longer fifteen, I examine the containment of waves recalling his eyes . . . My father.  I am speaking of him, a second-hand Polaroid, and the conversion of slides humming years of exhaust.
     ”You’ll spoil her,”  she said. ( momma always said that)   From jelly-beaned doorframes to free-reigned use of the car  . . .  My brothers never had it, no extras on Easter or driving for free.  They had to ask, had to save their money and buy their own you see.  It didn’t matter I hated that car.  It was an old Comet meant for peddle, but still, it was- a car - and, I didn’t even have a license!  Oh, daddy thought I did, but I lied.  Lied, because I wasn’t really attending school at the time of driver’s ed, I was off driving around on my permit.
     He never knew, I never told him, never told him in all of thirty plus. . .it seemed to me, the years that followed were- more than enough of a stab gutted.  . . and there are all these “still” and  “buts” left lingering as all I can think of is his arm wrapped round my shoulders and the plant of kiss to cheek . . . I can feel it - as real as real in wandering - I carry it with me and use it any time I  please. . . (cherries, they were cherry- laced chlorline in keeping)
     

 

“This world is not conclusion;
                         A sequel stands beyond,
  Invisible, as music,
                        But positive, as sound.” *

Excerpt…

I look to the west of mind,
go east a lick past nuts
and find myself,
 - the eye

Earth swirls all around
miniscule, but sweet
Heavy with the scent of
- living
Blind dust motes
naked in mass
heave cloy

Paper, Scissors, Rock

With nursery rhymes of dirt
I give myself over
blend rain with wind
and pick at matchsticks

Two-by- fours and plaster,
windowpanes of glass,
ice cream sticks and glue . . .

I funnel grey debris,
strip roots upright,
 breathe the clash,
survey havoc
from inertia
and look

Rounding corners of direction
I purvey miles well-spent
for always the Earth
remained…
and so  it was

“In the beginning..”**


*Emily Dickinson-
** Genesis 1:1

December -
     and I received dishes. . . not just any dishes, but- “a matched set.”    They were purple.  A set of  sixteen place sets  without prior. . Prior - as in knowledge.  There’s no way in hell she could’ve known.  My youngest, the instigator - couldn’t - have known . . .
     Purple, was my favorite, in the age of fifteen years.  That - was before - before, before, before . . .and I approach fifty without ever having completion.  meaning -  I never really had - “new dishes.”   Sure, sure, sure,  I could afford them after life was grown. . but never bothered frivolity.  It simply was.
     Today, - today, I am thinking of her . . her, and that boy… that bothersome boy. . . she likes him! OMG! she frickin likes him! ( a year from her Masters)  I know I’ve said that before, but, but, but… be careful my love. . . be ever so careful . . .
     She, is the child I never let in excepting growth .. friend, foe, and the opening of petals unknown.  The place I forgot in laughter but seen by her. . . be careful my love as life holds all but you . . . there's no "you" in without . . . it'll wait love, if worth holds even a smudged semblance of meaning. . . it'll wait. . .

*guess I should mention - my daughter is not quite twenty-one but almost there - - - a mile away early. . .smart, she's so smart I'll probably kill her if she screws up.  five years of college done in four. . . and we won't talk about high school, but she was earlier than most.  I really don't think I push her - but - what do - you want ?
"get it now"  I always say that. . . that -  and take care of 'you' first,  do it when you're young, the rest will follow. . .

don't blame ignorance on class, because ultimately - it doesn't make you smart.

I'm so absorbed - no common sense - that girl of mine lacks the ability ... she's me .. omg! she's fuckin me!  . . .but just a mite further down the road.. no, no, of course she's not - she's her - her own self. . . and she keeps callin' and I keep listenin' and never say a word . .  because  "I"   am NOT my mother. . . though I love her all the same... good gawd, how very much I love her. . . (can't talk to her, but I, so very much, love her)

I can't say "God" not even in print really. . I was raised Baptist and my momma would give you four knuckles flat without blink. . . I can say "fuck" though. . right smack-dab in front of her.  She's  not here anymore - hasn't been since Christmas . . . sad . . . she's dying, dying, dying. . . .and I'll be right here watching. . .
   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I should not write anything I'm not proud of - and yet - I have done so - over and over again. .. .

I can’t -

can’t think about God
don’t care,
don’t know  beyond
inbred
and so -
I
don’t . . .

“be strong”

more than half my life
is lived this way -
and frankly -
really,
    quite frankly,
                         I’m tired.

And -
if I could find a way to
empathize
I would. . . .

“come see me,” you say.
and this side of garrote,
I would. . .

I surely would
momma . . .

I surely would .

 “Heat rises,”  and  I’ve heard all that before, but -
“the living room ain’t  made for penguins. . .”

 and speaking of rise,
I’m up before dawn in the sidestep of cat.  It seems he insists on plopping my path to the kitchen.  Belly-rub, he wants a belly-rub, and more than willing to chance a squashed tail in the effort. (or paw, or any other body part he deems perishable)  It’s not my thing though, I never taught him that, (to just roll over,) the man did.  You see, he’d come home with the mail in his hand or whatever, and then stretch one foot out and rub his belly . . .our cat’s a dog sometimes. . . he’s definitely a door greeter.

AnYwAyS - I was talking about penguins.  Not really, but- our living room is cold most mornings.  Why? because the bedrooms are up above and “someone” turns the heat down.  I can’t say if our house sits east to west or north to south, but I can say this -  where the front side is deceptive, (appearing to only have two levels) the back side is three-storied,  wide open to wind, sleet, hail, snow, and whatever else rolls in. . .

And yes, I said “rolls” because Kansas is like that, like a great big yawn that stretches clean down to your toes.  Now I’m not knockin’ it, I was borned here after-all.. but it is kind-a -a like that.  Yes, I said borned, cause right there my brother Darrel popped in and he’s a red-neck through and through. (just like the Darrels on Newheart)  See, he knew I’d have some coffee going, might be two hours old but he likes it that way.  Nice and thick - to match his head. . . .
 
He’s been up for hours, salting or sanding, or whatever it is he does for the school district.  Groundskeeper, that’s it !  he likes to be outdoors no matter what, but likes my fire for an occasional pit-stop.  He knows I have one going cuz' penguins live here in Kansas (not prairie dogs) and he just l-o-v-e-s to pinch the ice off my nose. . . ANd - "NO! I don' wanna go feed da' cows rye-now"  "mind yer bizness boy, I've not forgotten much"

 the trill of morning, 
serration’s bounce in the echo
where I sit still
in the query of birds.

but again, I find too many “of s” and “ands” coupled with “in” . . .
the capture evades.  you see, I was thinking - coffee quiet, first cup past sleep, and then there was - “the bird.”  I heard him cut the air and thought to myself  how it reminded me of knifes . . . but also, I  realized, it’s been done.   

The cut, the air, the knife.  Still- think of all those teeth! the up and down - trilled polished with edge.  And, also because mornings are often soft like bread . . .have you ever tried to slice fresh bread without serration? hmmmmm . . .

 better get a grip girl, as everyone knows, birds don't really have teeth.
 and so, I'm back to - thinking . . .
(square one, ground zero, b-a-a-ddd monkey! bad, bad, bad!)

what I hate most about winter is barefoot lazy.

barefoot lazy, because I don’t like to do anything requiring shoes, so just past Christmas my toenails ice inert.  of course then it’s all over, for if any smidge of decoration didn’t make it downstairs it’ll probably see spring.  yes, Santa lives here year round in one form or another, but also, it makes me smile.

oh, I know it sounds strange,
a Brassai coupled with amateur prints, (my own) and miniature shields from Kenya,complete with quills.  I gaze about the room and find a yard sale in the making- it reminds me of ‘junky joes.’  a place not thought of in years, much like the oil hung slightly eschew but further back and much warmer . . .

the oil is a very cold place, dead tufts of sunrise, where branches so brittle with brown link barren with black and breathe ghosts in scratching  limbs . . .though I remember the day, the initial sketch remains frozen within and I wonder how, or why, I set out to memorialize such a day as that.  still, I keep it, because over the years that followed, a red fox appeared in the lower-left . . .she’s a beaut to be sure - the one that got away . . .yes indeed . . .that I should ever come to there,  the place of tendril matching trees.

BUT -  I was speaking of ‘junky joes’ and ignoring my caps, which isn’t always easy you know, the ” . . .” is easy, means I forgot what I was doing. (sort of)

‘junky joes’ sat down by the river.  it was a hodge-podgers emporium, the biggest flea market/junkyard stall ever owned by  just one man. joe had everything, fruits, veggies, furniture, toys, and kitchen sundries unfathomed.  none of it new, absolutely not, I mean there’d be no point in going if it was, cause momma was out for a bargain.  I still shudder sometimes with singed dicker.

momma had a mouth to match hair and she was one woman who could rail a boxcar without needing an engine.  I swear, I could hear her over the trains no matter how far-wandered, and wander we did, as ‘junky joes’ was meant for that.  I loved it there and shortly after Christmas I’d start dreaming of spring.  it wasn’t open in winter as most of it was stored outside and this is where momma moved in for the slash . . .

we’d go down there say - and momma would decide she needed a bigger pan for jam, or straining, or whatever  it was she did, and she’d say  joe! you know I got four kids to feed and five bushels of peaches to can!   -followed by -  this pan’s dirty!  joe, you think I got time to scrub it up on top o’everythin else?!   just as big as brass momma was, just “as big as brass” and I never caught a glimpse of what that meant till later, and I don’t care if it is - cliché.   then, joe would just smile and say- okay red, I hear ya'.
 (joe liked momma, you could just tell)

a mixture of Irish Indian through and through. . .

it matched her hair
and she was never- lazy
 'cause she-
was barefoot warm.




 

I sit pondering
wrinkles of air
Question the use
of the term,
and still
         return

There is a difference
in the movement
of words
The perception
of longevity
           and spoil

Much like the purchase
of deli meat..

For some prefer
that pocket of air
cushioning,
while others
pat  it down
flat and unyielding

Neither of which
holds any purpose
or adds life to sliced
cured, though it
may be

two-weeks topped
tinged green

wrinkles of air -- how I do like your pondering.  Keep it up.

pored smaller than cliché

reminisce the skin
worn thin
the child
is never grown

I sat thinking of writing, examined my fingers attached to hands, and found the wrinkles of time spread like  Kleenex  wadded and released.  It reminded me of my grandmother, and how very often, as a child, I ran my fingers across her skin and thought of bed sheets - soft as flannel worn thin with warmth, comforting in the stew of something simmered and flavored well-beyond  “ordinary.”

I thought of my grandson, how his eyes remind me of Christmas trees, or perhaps the light that filters a forest in dappled dreams but carries you forward in exploration. 

The blink of what man holds in err, the string of myriad cities dependant on power seems harsh but I would never wish this for him - to be programmed white to blue, gold to red, with a splash of purple flowed in-between idiocies.  No, not that. . .never that.
 
 And so,
I’m back to square one without Christmas. There's nothing tinseled within his eyes, there's nothing but nature in the dapple of fresh, and I am the giver of seed pored thin with soft.  A catalog poem, and not one spring of imagination other than heart. . . and though I'm fairly certain I’ll fail miserably -

I’ll still hold flannel.

(I'll work on it though, wad it and wad it, round, and round, and round - forever, the child)

Nora,

This is absolutely beautiful.  You have such a heart!  I am humbled to be amongst your presence...

Laura

go froggy, go froggy, go jump that cattle loggy, go froggy, go froggy, go . . .

I only write sleeping, she said. Conscience, flows- stoppered.

      But of course she meant the other one, the one where “Bugles” pinch-hit for cigarettes and acrylic nails, topping her fingers one by one to soften the drum of restlessness.  Click-click, and crunch the corn from three tips but leave the index whole as one can paint two eyes, a nose, and smiley mouth with which to hold a conversation beneath the hat of it.  Not paint actually but magic marker.  A “Sharpie,” a masquerade of compressed fiber writing out loud in silence and what became of  felt-tipped? 
     It’s the felt that carries her forward, past counting the rings of the respirator remembering magnets.  One can make just about anything they want from a bit of felt, a dab of glue, and some magnets.   You can hang them on the icebox door without ever needing screws, and she pauses to correct herself with ‘re-frig-er-ator.’ drawing it out in syllabus undertones.   
     No one calls it an ‘icebox’ anymore, no one but her mother. . and how silly it is to hold a conversation with nothing but air, even as she leans in to whisper the word again, then pulls the “Bugles” off and goes back to her arts and crafts.  Kits rather, she makes kits to share with her grandson and only writes sleeping. . .  They bring her back somehow, the magnets bring her back.  too bad momma's not made of felt


     

today -

my fingers roamed through eyes
in the gaze
and sought to smooth
crow’s feet unintended

a photograph
Christmas time white,
you, and your family,
missing the one
waiting

waiting for birth, and
gone is the boy I
once watched
 sleep . . .

     ”The book of Jacob”

April 10, 2008

     Nana doesn’t know why she feels inclined, but feels she must tell you about Da-da.  Back, when he was just a child - because Nana is thinking of him today- today, when your brother or sister is about to be born.

     Da-da didn’t always have lines around his eyes, but know - his, are those of laughter.  Nana named him so.  Isaac means laughter or he who laughs, and she sooo wanted it to be that way.  Also, it was Nana’s grandpa’s name, the hard and soft of what’s unknown. . .

      Da-da was a bean, a flower against stalk bloomed rare. He smelled of marigolds, a protectant against bugs, where orange clashed against red and Nana bled out with growth.  He grew long and lean, lanked beyond years in awkward. He couldn’t walk three steps without breaking something for all his legs and arms so Nana paid for karate and prayed for some glimpse of discipline- somewhere, somehow, someway. . .

     He kicked the slats out of his crib- the child who wouldn’t sleep.  Most likely, it was Nana’s fault.  You see, she walked the floor the whole time she carried him.  Paced back and forth, back and froth, a caged animal without the means of a father. . .

     Oh Nana knew him, knew him for two years prior, traveled the country with him, it was never casual for her, it was whatever she presumed love was- and- she believed it . . .

      There’s no bitterness in that, none left.  I had your father, and most importantly- over the years- he had me.  Da-da has the most enormous of hearts beyond hearts.   But - I think of that day last week, when you said to me - “Nana, you have no lines”  as your fingers grazed my face and I struggled not to weep. . .

Da-da's a man,  he always has been, from the time he was little,  squinting against the sun,  so bright it made your eyes hurt no matter the close, the kind of squint you find tombstoned in love against loss, where the clutch of a worn-out bear in kindergarten means everything in the hold of a smile . . . and Nana learned THAT- first, from him. . . . 
the first, she ever really, "knew.."
 
He was always holding. . .
there's no age in that child,
no age at all,
just the "wonder" of all
there is . .

   
 
   
.

GIRL!!!!!  Jordyn Grace ------ -7lbs 8 oz. 

life is good!  my son always delivers the very best of life to me !!!!

     it's the end of the world as we know it

and - maybe - just maybe - I'll catch some of you- next plane...

p.s. I always enjoyed talking to you Lynn, I always did..

today-

today, she woke up
found she wasn't human
and left herself.

— Congrats, Nora. Many, many, more!

dr

tomorrow, today, hereafter. . .

I.

she cut herself once and
 heard the echo of
whore! unspoken

where the
only missionary she became
was flatbacked between men
as she raised her children in
the effort to feed

so stoic back then

she was ever so stoic
for all
her degradation

II.

there are ghosts beyond words
mythical creatures
resembling the soul
and she questions their existence
as neither
 is much past the lamppost
 of iniquity

III.

so sidewind the twine
roll it up
then pitch it hard against
empty

and this
she knows beyond shadowed

 she knows
           she knows
                  she knows . . .

Whisper the wind my friend,
and know -
that I’m here . . .

Mist covers the morning,
dabbles in sunshine
and moves to rise.

The air,
Waterford Crystal.
Brilliantly crafted in
the snap of  January,
where leaves crunch
like acorns beneath
my feet .

Birdbaths of snow
dot empty fields
as Blue Jays
fight for seed.

I sidestep their antics
and head for the trees.

Curious you see,
wondering if birches
are deep within,
so that I
might telegraph my heart
in clacking . . .

 — a fine pen, Nora. Thank you

Just off to bed, Nora, and this is a lovely one to carry with me there.

milner

between cat litter and coffee
the vision of bled dry
reminds her of slugs and
 trails lack shells
in passing

openly wet
desperate with salt
where you was us
but weeds

It comes in clouds

emotions mosaic
the blend of night sky
and nimiety

a forecast of rain
pelting the trees mindless as
pink and white are strewn to
brown in drying

a taking of rust
a multitude circled round
________________________

Five  a.m. the incessant bleeping
of the alarm clock, placed
halfway across the room.
Poor thing, it only performs
duties pushed  upon it
by my own hand.

Still it annoys me, sounding
over and over, calling……
Pushing back the duvet,
invisible fingers of thought
rising in sync, answer.
I stumble awake.

Local news is the trade-off,
silencing the beeps as
I straighten the couch,
and head for the kitchen.
Out of coffee filters again,
a napkin makes do.

The air flows chilled through
the open window, ruffling
pulled blinds, stirring....
I stoop, unloading the
dishwasher, putting
clean dishes away.

Struck by the thought
of Maple trees, wondering
how and where it came from
Comparing them to life,
realizing I have
no knowledge......

Such are the mornings
of my life, gathering
tidbits of thought.
Wiping breadcrumbs
off the countertops,
as the moisture dries,
unseen....

Each and every morning..

“Be careful, I love you,”
            and
“Have a good day”

“She never told us to be  good”

Laughter…
Always, there is laughter
gathered ‘round my table
in the gobble of food.

   BOYS!

“Member that time…”

They exaggerate of course,

I never pulled the second boy
from the car, lifting him off
his feet, by his hair.

It certainly isn’t the reason for
 his thinning pate.

I never served spaghetti
to the oldest, covering a condom,
for having sex  in my house.

Abstinence doesn’t guarantee
your first-born’s male.

Jumping from the roof
of the garage to the shed,
doesn’t make you a fireman
for all your broken bones.

The youngest in training.

I can already tell, that soon,
their banter will escalate..
Grown men behaving
like children and I
 stand ready with

‘the hose‘

*pieces of eight-worthless dubloons 2005
________________________________________________

concerning graduation

Looking back, I see yesterday;
you only weighed six pounds.
Seventeen years added ninety,
and slightly over a yard or so,
to your fairy-like frame.
Delicate as Astilbes,
variance in vibrancy,
frothy and free.

If Helen could launch
a thousand ships,
then you could heal
a third world country.
A  sacrificial lamb,
the purest of hearts,
teeming with life.

You have been my bulwark
against currents of undertow,
offering crocuses in dead winter,
the renewal of Spring and light.
Elfin magic for my tree.

I attempt to step away
from the page
To be able to view
objectively
and find
I cannot.

I sit watching the dawn creep
over the mountain, remembering
a small, red-haired princess.
Her steed a loving Labrador,
who passed as surely as the girl.

Knowing this evening will bring fresh tears,
as a young woman crosses the stage.
The end of an era, beginning brand new.
Comforted by the knowledge
she still holds my hand
in . . .   public.


Forever, the Dogwood blooms

Love, Mom


*pieces of eight- worthless dubloons 2005

— these are a real treat, Nora   :)

I wrote of you once

a tending to white
pinched purple against the glass
flowed empty and
having no half
the mesa spaced more
than aired

not
pines
dogwood
swift
country
midsummer
corn
speech
bent
plow


midsummer-

the dream unanswered
bent beneath the plow
corn popped 
to no avail
as even the dogwood weeps
hindered by speech in a
country of pines
absolving the swift
with -  “not”


* and -that-  is not - a poem!!!! tsk, tsk, tsk, though I might just post it for kicks . . .
after all, it is - under - the word count..
** by god, I did it anyways, changed it a bit, but did it.  HA!!!!
(so silly, all these contests, and me with no sensible sense of talent. oh well fuck 'em, the contests are what got you into not writing, you frickin' dumb-ass)


can the fuckin italics girl and go back . .. years ago, I used to scuplt dolls.  Hours, and hours, and hours, I'd spend, money poured straight off the sweat of my ass to make it work.  "you can't bridge the nose that way, it'll never stand up to the kiln"  on and on they'd go ...but- you know what?  the "what" was capturing my youngest girl in porcelain - and - I did. (cost me tons of money perfecting, but I did-eventually- succeed.  She was two, forever two within my mind and I have the doll to prove it.  Nothing, was ever so special to me and I could drive myself mad remembering the creativity once held, but have somehow found myself adept in ignorance.  But- today- today, I walked the woods gathering morels (sp) for eating and chanced across some watercress newly grown, and so, this too, made my day.)

Brill, Nora
old-world-cool

more!

yesterday's news



It was said -
her mother was born veiled.
She too.
In the place of breaths
without air . . .

I.

There were all those dots
the em-dashes that made pause
and the need to sweep midway
the corners she abhorred

An upward glance
a beginning of there
where all was lost to what
she sometimes termed as
    “excremental extraction's

But this -
this too, she knew.

II.

A holding of sorts,
down plucked without pins.
No barbs, no sting,
no bite of teeth tethered
against  the skin.

She simply-
could not, would not
bleed.

III.

Of Plath-
she takes note
and finds herself slack
as to what bridge holds
insanity
and what drives one over
to the side without soul

and questions yet -
the existence of such.

IV.

because . . .

She never had one -
she didn’t abuse.
And, this
exceeds expression.

at least,
not in the proper  form
and she never cared much
 for Plath.

V.

Too close to be jealous
but envious all the same.

she gathered herself on
the fragments of photos
not taken
collaging remnants of hair
by means of a backbone
ripped separate from spine

forgiveness
is not
forgotten in blame
but instead
is held heavy
in a heart deemed to be
non-existent

she is not but wraith
winding the wisps of
what remains
silent and cold with grave
in a flurry of bugs
feasting on choice

she made them
yes indeed
she did

contemplation-
cobwebbed grass

spring fever-
the wait for scurried

eight legs of distance
winding dandelion tufts
in a lend of white
between lilacs

your backyard,
the knot of peonies
lining the fence in
stiff before bloom as
summer draws near

and soon
the ants will come
in a passage of petals
fragrantly heavy
laid open to rain

unfinished, unfinished, unfinished . . . but these are my thoughts today.  You see, I was thinking of my mother, how these last few years with her, remind me of her peonies . .  I can't explain it, but I'll come back to this later.

O you.

Killer ending (V.) on the one EB quoted in the last post Nora - I like that one too

xo M

you know, I've seriously considered running this past another site . . . (means I think it needs a bit more work and not suitable for this site, but one the few pieces I almost feel comfortable about releasing to the general public) and almost- is a very big word to me lately . . .I like it though, I really do.  I think I saw a piece of me somewhere, somewhere, between writing before- and, where, I want to go.  It's  been a long time since I saw, or felt, that way.. thank you. . . I'll ask myself today if I'm brave enough to fan the flame as I'm sure it will burn me singed.

her voice
is that of paper cracked yellow
weathering the years past harsh
in splinters ‘cross my spine

there’s no grammar in
leaving her there

leaving her there
two days
past sleeping

there’s only me -
and the commitment to
making her angry enough
to fight

go ahead, I say,
have the last word. . .

"go ahead"

sooooo ...
I posted it, number 67 . . . and now I sit in wait for the vultures to swoop.
tsk, tsk, tsk....have to know, have to, know it isn't perfect, but have to know if there's even a piece of it right there. . . right there. . .just a smidge, all I want is - - -   a smidge.

I grab the beak and
pinch it smart
the smack against my leg

the body then
will surely roam
in blood strewn on
the yard

chickens -
in the kill of primate
heads popped bleeding . . .

     Ike, (my granddad) was quite adept in the process, and next will come the blanche.  Blanche - in the removal of feathers.  Feathers, are not part of eating and years ago I thought he was cruel.
     He was.  My mother lies dying, skin cancer clean down to the bone almost, from picking cotton in her youth to provide the means of sugar for bootleg.   Yeah, yeah, yeah,  it was his land, and born he was  to it.  But - she inherited the Irish side, pale and red of hair, fire within, but not withstanding of bronzed mud.  She was never an Indian, not truley by sight.
      He called her “pig.”  He had nicknames for all of their brood, but she was always -”Pig.”    He always called her  “pig” and hers was the hair of my youngest. Prone to tangle, knots that even the most adept sailor would not  attempt.  She wore it for years that way, thickly braided, pinched deeper than soul.
     And- yes - I say soul- because - when we first discovered the skin cancer they were doubtful on where to cut for the scarring of leather.  They didn’t know which was which from pucker.  This was 'her childhood' held proud. His was the land granted, already owned in his mind,  but - they were born to it  -  born. It was thiers.
     She was crazy.  My mother was crazy when we were young.  She’d line us all up sometimes, switch in hand, and tell us not to cry.  Sure, we went to school all the time with welts but never did they last.  AND, also - the boys never suffered that.  Never had to go to school in a dress where it showed what she’d done.  Never had to lie about sliding down the fence, and "oh, I must have caught it more than once."
      They, can’t deal with her.  Can’t deal with her years later.  They love her, yes, they do.  And I, think of how many times I’ve heard it said - that women are different than men.  And yes, yes, they are.  Because I love her more than that, past everything, and know - my daughter - the youngest one left - loves me that way.  And it’s enough to get me through. . . enough to get me through…
     I may not have any chickens left today - but  I’m okay.  I’m really - okay.  My granddaughter was born the tenth of April, the day after my birthday, with the blackest of hair, the highest of cheekbones, and the loudest  voice I've ever had the pleasure to hear in a newborn.  GAWD! She's nothing BUT - LOUD!!!!
     He'd have been proud. My Granddad would have thought she was nothing but cherries.

*just past the point of stop book two. irish indian and just enough brit to see it through. godspeed.
     

quite profound, Nora. Thanks, mil

four and a half feet wide it stands
where the steamer label dates
nineteen twelve

a china cabinet
claw-foot complete
 with toenails
an easy five grand
three years past
and more . . .

(three years past 1972
and I always felt bad
for her - my grandma,
her very own mother's
 finest possesion
and not left -
to her)

no nails it stands- pegged,
and past a generation
over and over
and over again

clarification comes by
the name of Nora
no H -
just Nora

white castle, England,
generation born
bred upright with heather
peat captured by wind

a faggot
the fire
and the scent of
Irish potatoes
trips my nose
then fuses
a backbone born

I never made to sell it
not even when
my own children went hungry
never  . . . not once

no more than the
childhood hutch
I once held dolls in

the piece
my father’s dad made
the one I never allowed
my own daughters
 to have


because -
because -
maybe,
they couldn’t smell wood.


* I'm beginning to write again, don't know if that's bad or good, but at least I'm trying.

I know, it shows, it shows
and how lovely


 :P

I like this. 

Rick

"I'm beginning to write again, don't know if that's bad or good, but at least I'm trying."

It's good, real good.

I'd say it's very good.  Very, very. 

Memorial Day- and
the moment was coffee.

a sip past tepid,
examining cream in the
swirl of one hand,  where
the wrist winds feathered
by means of a mourning dove.

but I grow tired of them,
their perch of feet
clawed atop the clothesline
 in a wait to soil the sheets,
as even now I sling seed
far and away.

the yard was bigger then,
set deep in quarreled
where the fence held
and trees grew large . . .

I speak to you, I said.

It was such a simple work
a kindergartner
could have composed it,
and I - wrote, two versions.

I think of it now,
the  “see me, see me,”
aspect of it all . . . and
shudder.

Still,
I ordered -
the book.

but again, I grow tired of them.
their coo reminds me of
trapped hoot owls.

yes, I know they’re not,
but your eyes roll eaves
where mice roam beneath a
Plexiglas of pain, and you say
 -
they mate, for life . . .

# 84 & 85 are exquisite...

subtle

figments filleted
the brush of fingertips on water
where voice - becomes,
the rings of re verb

singed with sun,
the discoloration
starts with the thighs
and travels upward

why ?
why, would you do such a thing?

she’d lain for hours on
that river years ago,
trailing her fingers,
thinking of nothing but
knowing it all . . .

and, thirty years later -
 still carries the line.

laid there, laid there, laid there.

poached more than rare, where
all she could see -
were the cliffs, and
the wind of -

water.

but of course,
her legs - were buried
within.

some things . . .
                             I save . . .

we touch -
 on father’s

the spread between
yours-
mine-
and, children.

Mine,
the strength -
beneath core.

and, yours -
the hidden,
beneath.

I -
have been -
both.

the measurement,
between-
unyielding.

slide the rule girl,
make your sons something
more and give back to
your daughters

It hurts you
no more or
less . . .
give over

a piece
of heart unending
where nothing -
will matter -
more, than love.

NO,
it isn’t smart
there’s not one piece of
intelligence
found-
within.

However,  -
there is -
     a
difference.

Love -
love, is the substance of blood unfathomed,
the pound of it  against the brain,
the turrent of self-distruction, and -
the ability-
to - survive . . .

on the eighth day
she was more weary than lost

three blind mice and
a carving knife

bullocks, -every last one . . .

we were children only once

Nora, first of all hello to a dear friend.  I am trying to make this out, searching for understanding.  Two reads hardly skims the surface, I think.  Poached more than rare captured me but what about the line? This is absolutely beautiful and thought provoking.

Sherry

skeins of rain

the glance of trickle
through trees
weaves magic in moss
and I
am reminded of lace

but no,
it was much more
because the lace ran on
to hands

filigreed veins beneath
a tissue-like softness
wadding the years of use
in wrinkled dexterity and
smoothing them out
recycled

skeins of rain

the wind of yarn
gathers the scratch
wooled backwards
in youth and
I find myself
huddled

there
beneath the cedar

where even the strongest
of wind, would not betray
my presence

she was so angry then . . .

a funnel cloud undone

 Dear Sherry,

     how very nice to find you visiting - it, brought me - a much needed smile.  I’m very strange you see, I smile, and smile, but not always like that.  I’d go on, but I’m fairly certain I’d lose myself somewhere.  AND - that brings me to the place of tangents . . . I’m tangent-ly inclined it seems, and that - is not- a word. But then however,- “tangential” might be the suffice if I took the time to apply it properly.
     How’s that for Trix?  Captain Crunch, has indeed left the building and I am full of nonsense lacking milk.  If only, I hadn’t slaughtered the cow, we could’ve had breakfast.  Complete with trombones, as cows - in the mooing- remind me of them.  Tis only a lark my friend . . . and where does the damned apostrophe, or “what-cha-ma-call-it,” go right there anyways? humph!!
     The girl, girl, girl, will be home on Monday.  A scant two weeks she'll stay.  She’s busy you see, busy, busy, busy.  I’m not really complaining, she has her internship working, but anyways . . She’s coming for her friend’s wedding and I have a dress to alter by about six inches off the floor.  That girl of mine is simply tooooooo short! and even this - I’m only complaining because it happens to be of a ball-room type style and all the hair I’ve since grown back will surely be pulled before finished.
     Black though - it’s a black and white wedding set with pink accents so she’ll be able to use the dress later, for museum functions/fundraisers and such.  I’m doing some appetizers for the rehearsal (imagine that and then wonder how I got roped when she lives so far away)  The girl’s a wheedler way back..  “but momma, I’m the maid of honor and I have finals”  whine, whine, whine. . .spreading jam so thick you’d think it’s a tart poured full.
     Her roommate from college will join us that weekend also, so “be sure to air my room mom”    tra-la-la . . like they don’t live on ramen noodles up there . . . she says she cooks though, and I, for one, find that hysterical.  Last time I was made aware - if she picked up a pan - it’d surely fuse useless.  HA!!!
      Okay, I have to go now…I’m sniffling. . . so much to do, to do, to do . . .  love you, N

p.s. the line - guess I didn't explain, oh well.  anyways, here goes - (though surely I'll fix it or maybe not - as you know how I feel about my own composites)  when I was young I got one of the worst sunburns known- lying on that river in an innertube -  years later, every time I get out in the sun, I have a line at the top of my thighs that's always darker.  I burnt myself bad! I burnt myself so bad they gave me painkillers. it stayed yellow for at least two years after, with, or without, sun.
 

   

How wonderful to hear to talk so about your daughter and jam tarts and the hem on a bridesmaid dress.  I always enjoy your tangents regardless of the subject.  A quick hello to Captain Crunch for me.

Always-
Sherry

when the alarm sounds
the bleat of sheep’s too late . . .

she’s two cups past waking
in a barefoot dance
disrupting dust

I like the above a lot.  Nice and tight.  I think there's more, though.

Rick

don’t let your boobs hang out.
they’ll drag to your waist, or
perhaps later in life, if
you stand just right, you
could sketch
free-hand.

LOL This old bra-burner can dig where you are coming from.

the prance of fault in
cantered liability and
name games of blame
form words
on a board of
points


      blah, blah, blah . . . a bit of scrabble- scribbled wee hours a few days back.  mostly I was caught by “cantered liability” in a lack of focus.  I was pouring my coffee, yes indeed.  (when, pop! there it was, that phrase of two words)  I have no idea concerning origin, or why for that matter, just there. I’ll come back to it. . .later . . . the spacing's off - it's too obscure - it's -it's -it's - well frankly- I really- DON'T FRICKIN' KNOW!! I hate that, the two words from no-where without having the means of a "fit." I'm sub-lingually challenged in deficit.

     it’s been a long two weeks of frivolity laced with need.  hair, make-up, the eye doctor, shopping, etc. etc. etc.,  and all the more reason to know I’m glad, she’s almost grown.  it’s a bit like having company, but I said almost grown because she’s on internship, meaning  she has no cash, but plenty of attitude. (and I paid her rent for July and August. grown, but not)
     not the bad kind, perhaps I should say confidence instead, but she no longer whines about what color of nail polish looks good or how her hair twists round in tickles.  it simply flies dither.  she tucks it in with stray pencils resembling a schoolmarm,  then pats it down admonished with ‘stay.’   it never does.  it winds like rivulets of rain down the nape, and grabs her shoulders in roaring the mane.  She's grown to live with it in appreciation separate from her own eye. (there's a difference you know.)
      and then -  then, there’s yet another boy. one of the groomsmen from her friend’s wedding, the only one who had the nerve to ask what the small tattoo on her left shoulder meant- (they were taking bets, he said, and she told him how sad that was but graced him with a smile.)  He’s been trying to call her but of course she doesn’t answer.  She’s off rafting somewhere, white-water and the river gorge . . . send an e-mail, I say, I’m surprised she gave you this number, she doesn‘t live here you know.  Oh she didn’t, he says, but I asked around and thought you might know where she was.  sheesh! (and I wonder if he’s a stalker)
     they never last long, these boys that seem drawn, their interest fades like the lifespan of a moth.  she doesn’t have time and they don’t want to wait it out. education, I said, get what you   want first. except, except for that one who lived across the hall her first year of college.  he lives in Utah now, finishing up his Master’s.  they’re still friends and converse on a daily basis no matter how brief.  they’re just friends,  she says, don’t pry more into it, paaa-leese!

     that’s about all - I’ve waited to catch my breath from the whirlwind and thought how glad I’d be to find her gone but on reflection’s air - can think of nothing but.

"write something momma, write something"

funny how that works. the last of my brood.

     
     
     

sanding baseboards

where melodies are lost in
the stench of wine pored fast
beneath your skin

assail me not the
cavern you create as
I hear nothing but
- the grind

you died-

and I,
with my bibliography of pain
knew not .  . .


blow then
the sea of weeds where
I might find
the roll of sweet grass
bowled  under
with tears

This bowls me over, Nora. So strong.

milner

I think it should be moved to the submit board.

just past the point of stop
she was cranking them out
two times a week

a carousel of words
cavorting poles in
an up and down 
movement

there were no ribbons
of course
no ribbons
at all

"Per - capita"

He - doesn’t forgive her -
this thing-
 between childhood and
growing up. . .

He never- will. . . .

How then?
how will I -
break molds
 unspoken?

the capitalistic force that
drives one over in
 the effort to -
succeed . . .

capitalistic is
not a word
but it should be. . .

it definitely should -


"BE"


but then-
again-
it is. . .

This is an interesting take on competing with the mother (right?)

she wads it -
the uneven mass of hair
grown against will . . .

and once,
once - it totally fell out,
but -
that was before
they carved her brain . . .

nowadays
she goes without makeup
matches her shirt to jeans
and sometimes -
some times . . .
never bothers
with even a bra

she thinks about it
yes, yes, she does . . .

but then ,
in an act of defiance
outside the norm,
she lets her arms flow free
and bounces her way past

they look of course,
she knows they do
but all that remains,
is shadow . . .

Wow!  Strong and sad.

Rick

extraordinary.  makes me hurt for the shadow.

thirty-four-fifteen . . .

     July rolls September in sweat-soaked sheets, a negligence of age, and she thinks of chickens.  Take a powder love,  you’re suited for boil.  This will take hours, and even then - the meat’s refusal clings to wishbones of unknown origin. Cross-legged, tucked firmly beneath the nest.
     But one could say, how so?   Chickens, tuck their feet under, then settle atop. But think of the breast, the puff that goes railed against heart, the preening of fluff before sleep where heads are tucked deep.  The nest is surely the heart, though chickens are not known to sit cross-legged. Or are they?

 a footstep's echo


beneath breath
a blasphemous undertone
slides the ear visual

coffee rings
ten to one discards
stacked against
the solitude he finds
in a wine glass

the same is used
over and over
repetitive breakage

there’s only one left
the rest having hit clumsy
between words of spit

and
she thinks of buying more
in feigning sleep
but nothing will change

and so, of course
she doesn't

jordyn grace

your father scoops
a fit well-thrown
you blink a shuddered hush

at four months old
you rule the world but
stop to focus face

he only said -
                    "enough!"


yes, I know 

Daddies are like that

when she lost herself outside
of words . . .

she had, no

explanation . . .

I know that one.  Wish I'd written it.

 no explanation

Girl,
     I tell ya -
         the jungle grows thick. . . of late, I've taken to walking at four a.m. thinking of cupcakes frosted and set.  (frosted warm, that is)  See my knee, my knee, my knee, reminds me a bit of baking powder set to rise in a batter of bone and muscle is flour.  It seems I bake it for nine hours a day and the eggs beneath the cap swell air.  I pull it out and fight against the need to make it fall. I prop it up to cool.  But - not before frosting . . . I can't help but frost it, and so at four a.m. it's sticky sweet clean down to groove. (with more than a hint of tarter)
     I push it though. (of course, you know, I would)  But then, my friend, it's been since last September and I was too ill to fix it.  My head hurt much too hard, but you can remember when I had the hernia - (down two weeks and right back up) but lately the head is improving.  In fact, I finally grew enough hair to donate, and so, - I did.
     Wash and comb girl, nothing more.  I kind of like it right now, saves me some time.  It's a funny thing, this thing, I once held dear.  But, take last night for instance . .
I worked all day and then went  off to watch the grandkids. . .
     My Jordyn, my, my, my.  She resembles me greatly.  I mean, you can take one baby picture and superimpose it over another and barely see the slightest of line.  AnYwAyS - she was bathed and in bed by nine, but right around eleven she woke without waking and so it goes . . .
     She loves to snuggle against the neck, tiny little ear pressed so close to the jugular one heartbeat joins another and the rhythm is a song bled into hum.  this is the warmth that often goes unnoticed, the audacious nature of love without having the means of return . . . so simple, the glow I find within.  she, knows. . . I know. . . she does. . .
     It was after two before I returned home, but still, I rose at four.  Another three miles walked steady, uneven the first. . stiff, stiff, stiff.  (I'm aging against my will) Plagues me, the knee I mean, but I'm working on it.  All this concrete plagues me also, I'm not meant for that, I need to be - "outdoors."  I'll get there . . . there may not be any mountains here, but as always- there is -  life. . .

                                breathing as usual and too much to say,  n

breathing as usual and too much to say --- n, what a line that is.  me, reading as usual and all gawpy and agape at your amazing mind.  wondering, with this note, if the flour of brain matter is white or gray and if the same rise comes to pass with the powder activated to bake and if, if all works the same, or similarly, and after the frosting's been knifed over the hemispheres, if I might have a chunk--just a wee bite of that phantastical imagination . . .

day nine - and yesterday,
my son, turned thirty.

I’m not stupid, she says.
My eyes lever shut behind
wide-open, but of course
she doesn't care.

I’m not a doctor . . .

-with the little hand approaching ten
and three phone calls later,
he’s just about finished.

long day?
yeah.
since seven this morning.
long week?

what’s a week?
 thirty years I think.
can you baby-sit Friday?

wide-open, no levers,
the answer is  yes.

the mind wanders
it rattles three streets from south
dragging north along east
trailing west

a cat of orange
white-pawed sat meowed
knowing the canvas was not
more than decoupage
slathered in paint

and I  -
I wondered where
his mistress had gone.

A pleasure to read your thoughts and lines here, Nora. I wonder if you need the comma after the last "I" in the poem beggining with "the mind"...
Vasile

nothing -
is ever halfway
in the means of nuance

superlative -
the nature
 in which she cries

there’s no lead-in
just a flat-out squall
equal to swamping boats

Jordyn Grace, the first year

beautiful, Nora
Thank you.

decoupaged brown

wood -
I find it in trees
my scars dripping sap
knotholes surpassed
disease healed over

water -
because above all else
the perception of moisture
grows within and
blankets me cocooned

fire-
subtle without blaze
the rise of bread
a substance of heat
without reason

paint -
because
I am all and
nothing but varnish
worn smooth

I am not yellow though
I could never
 be that

there are days -
remnants worn frayed
a backsplash of skin
adhered to why

there are moments -
a pupils retraction
the force without
 blink

and the hand
becomes fused
with paint

love it, girl.

It's Nora's voice I know...
Vasile

I am not yellow though
I could never
be that

Hello, dear Nora.  This resonates so well with me. You approach poetry with the honesty that many never find.  I hope to see that in my own voice some one.  Enjoy your holiday.

Sherry

unconditional -

with a pump-knot of hair and paint-splattered jeans we approach the house.  his smile, is found in the eyes.  wonder what they’ll think?  he says, and I, in turn, wink.  he laughs right then wide-open.  it jiggles the slight paunch of age and the slump of round shoulders finds the corners of youth in jaunt.

these years - the good, the bad, and ugly, as they say . . .crown molding for a foundation built crumbled on bedrock.  it doesn’t sense, (the ties between) but all I know is this  . . .

this morning, as I was doing my miles tread-milled he came down the stairs and lifted the cover from canvas .  . .  and such a look he had . . . such a look . . .it reminded me of my granddaughter. (five months old)  I’m not even sure she likes me. (the way her brow knits from time to time) but I just smile and say what are you doing little girl?  and leave it at that.  AnYwAyS . . .

he asked me, if it was  finished . . .I don’t know, I said,  ( nothing - ever is.) followed by - I’m working on my ass right now. . . and, you know what he said ? ? ? ?

" I only see your mind. "

bedrock!!!! . . .

 (or perhaps a bit of 'old man's beard'- found on, 'mature' trees.
it's good for kindling they say - I know some weird shit, lol)

is there,
such a thing as
coffee grown stale
or circular thoughts
rimming the mind
like cream ?

I wonder . . .
because fresh,
 is not always -
best

and, would you then,
write of your mother
in a field of paisley and
stroke frogs by means
 of wormwood ?

I think not.

seven a.m.
soon to be eight . . .

time,
the inevitable clatter of
clipped cards and
bicycle spokes

Lovely sound!  Haven't heard it in a long time.

Rick

flamed vapor

timbered with age
you slide like moisture
beneath my skin

the kids are grown
surviving the nails of wax
not meant for pillage

still-
I see your eyes
the snap of a pungent grin
and the strum of your bass
plays on . . .

plump -

because there’s something in
overhang . .

the rounding of flesh
protruding from seat
on a bicycle without
streamers

a clothespin and card
flickety-flick
 in yesterday and
all it holds . . .

pinch it
and it becomes crushed in
a bedspread of thirteen
velvet  with gaudy

long -
it was so long ago
your friend,
and her bastard-born child

you gave birth to four
bastard’s, every one,
and never blinked once

who?
who?  holds the key ?

my children,
my children are all
that I wasn’t

and seventy hours a week
it cost . . .

time -
time, is nothing but-
"you"
and my parents "instilled" -
a very strong sense of
"that" . . .

you are what you are

jazz -

jazz is the note that
pulls you under
the heartfelt boom
drawn out  in
wailing
but set to
tune

the image of
a note
set to chord

the place
where feet  throb
and the body
lingers  . . .

a mindset -
known only
to  soul

.

here -

here,
is the splash of red
against black
where blue -
regarding pristine,
becomes -
an open sore

leprosy begins
in the mind
and so -
we disregard . . .

two bottles
some pills
and sleep is prayed
supine

no 132 - replace Jazz with Sex.

Either way - it feels good.

Jazz - Sex
it's all the same . . .

the notes are what matters.
and if you find your life to be
discordant -
end it . . .

I've had enough I think.
My head is -throb, throb, throbbing
I'm scratching my hair, taking some pills and
well into my second bottle . . .
think I'll just shower and die.

(if only- I could be - so lucky)

stay -

stay the hand of
destruction
the process of all
you know

give back
the faces of clocks
found in gas pumps
the smiles of yesterday
and all that’s imagined
real - or otherwise . . .

stay -
and feel the whir of hum
with honeysuckle ripe in
the mist of morning
rolling fog from a
 coffee cup rare
and a toe-full of mud

then -
bracken the barbs
beneath your skin and
become one without
infection

they’re only pokes,
surely, they're that
 and, this much -
you know . . .

paint not
with broad strokes
but give over to
delicacies

the spindle of trees
a taste of morning unseen
 where the color is -
 what no man knows
 beyond heart

but seen -
 it's seen,
I gare -run- tee

give over my love
the tapestry’s there

give over my love
and set the brush to sing

(*naked, the heart is naked . . .  I don't think anyone's ever said that, so I will. . .  NAKED!!!)

Now that's damn beautiful.

Always glad you say what you said.  Naked hearts are a tender thing.  You, my friend, set the brush to sing.

ld

bravo, bravo!

deprived despair,
where even the pores
of my skin deny sweat
in legions of lead.
and, pride -
despite my undoing,
carries the mule forward.

that I could turn
escapes me not,
but the knowledge of
my own self-loathing
will stay the hand against
healing

it is, beyond
my reach . . .

And when the wall behind wont let you carry on
don't get down, or pull that lead curtain round
this is for you, when you feelin' blue, I'll be
here nowhere else, just because it's true
I've been there too, little and so young
to carry on alone, take it all
takin' all the blame
and simply drownin'
so here, here
will be
call





.

there’ll be
no more excuses
she was never afforded
not even as a child

she tries to make sense of it
the no sense of nonsense
the reason she is


       she grew to accept her.  the wind of rage unwarned . . .
consistently cloaked, she hides a smile of mirth.  the idea of ‘time-out’ is ludicrous.  the only time-out she can relate to is when, her  mother wasn’t angry, but - she doesn’t blame her. . . she never does. . .
      cause and effect - “write a letter to everyone you’ve ever wronged.”
where she’d never get past her own mother let alone anyone else.  she went to school most days wishing for jeans or tights. anything, to cover the welts from whatever lay handy in punishment dealt.  but then, there was the time she laid in the bathtub too long and her hair became gummed with Ivory soap . . . she looked like a porcupine for all the time it took growing back out, not to mention her cheek the teacher avoided.  no eye contact was ever made directly in childhood.  none, not one adult she knew.
       when she won the leading role in a grade school play, she couldn’t attend because she inadvertently put ice cubes in some jello meant for church, and so she ran off to live in a drainage ditch for three days rather than face the embarrassment.  she’d have to attend school that day, yes, of course. and her mother would be there to say she couldn’t do it.  the same held true for the art fair -  first place - where the ribbon was shredded and the work destroyed because prior to that, she'd sketched her bedroom wall.
        headlong down the stairs -
the age of nine covered a bruised head, a damaged optic nerve, and two teeth missing at the doctor's office.  but of course she was playing ball with her brothers when she slipped and fell down the embankment striking stone.  there was always summer school and chores to be metered. she could always afford to be out and all was all so long ago. it was all so very, long ago.
        a constant noose -  “I never should have had children”
the repetition of a hangman’s knot bared a sense of indifference, the ability to seek beyond mirrors, to dive beneath snared.  but with it - also came relentless.    relentless oppression, though never once did she deal metered to her own, her stress was not inflicted by living the mold though the chokehold - remained.  It was, a song played over and over again and hidden within.
         irregardless, her mother was always sober.
sober, for all the pain inflicted. the later years, she thinks of this, of all there is - of what she’s no longer able to deal with within.  she never saw it coming, the path she flew past is nothing but foxglove.  no blame though, absolutely not . . .there’s only herself, and she's the one who shouldn't have had - "children."  indeed, she is.  she wallows now in the sewage of youth. it's something she never had time for and can't explain.

        "write a letter" they say . . .
ten steps past purgatory, the bottle blocks refusal. and though the difference lies in the dive
the surface is marred . . .


abuse does not beget abuse
but neither does it love
where one is forgiven
another is not

Wow!

Rick

driftwood hard

two days from Sunday
apologies lie buried
in eyes of ash

a pulse beyond pain
with shadowboxed veins
where every day’s
mechanical

but this,
this, she can do
without promise

#144... I agree with Rick.  And yet can't seem to utter even that....

goblet the glass -

as if rosemary could have color
in weaving twine with
a bit of tinged abalone
distinctly pink

to capture the sea
spit sprayed
on a cliff of
undisturbed moss

sunrise
sunset
and nothing but dew

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

know what I hate the most about politics?  "I'm Nora D and I approve this message"
"oh yeah?  well I've got some Bar S Franks I'll sell ya for Bratwurst too"

Excellent.

larry

Bravo, Nora. Thank you.

sanding baseboards

where melodies are lost in
the stench of wine pored fast
beneath your skin

assail me not the
cavern you create as
I hear nothing but
-  grind

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

between cat litter and coffee
the vision of bled dry
reminds her of slugs and
how trails lack shells
in passing

openly wet
desperate with salt

~~~~~~~~~

It comes in clouds

emotions mosaic
the blend of night sky
and nimiety

a forecast of rain
pelting the trees mindless as
pink and white are strewn to
brown in dry

~~~~~~~~~~

there are ghosts beyond words
mythical creatures
resembling the soul
and she questions existence
as neither  is  past
the lamppost of iniquity

~~~~~~~~~~

the echo of
continuum

a plague of mulberries
feeding off ash and
the find of
a wobbled dumpty

where pop -
is  never weaseled
nor rolled to the grass
in laughter

still . . .
I think such things
in the gather of pieces

~~~~~~~~~~
 
abject boredom covers
dispatched euphoria
finishing greed
haphazardly inked.

justified kenosis leers
 morbid nemesis octahedron
punishing quiet ruminations.

squelched terminology
uselessly veers wayward.
xeroxed yawns zoning.. .

recreation ? ? ?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
The place of quandary
words left beaten
blending murk’s force
in water’s stream
muddled muddy
MISS-I- SS-
” I“

Where the following letters
touch nothing but nature
and the void of conscience
takes over construction
building castles of air
without substance
or footing

The foundation of such
incapable crumble
for it was never
- there

There was only me . . .
and silent came
the stare..

~~~~~~~~~~

I am reminded of musical chairs
standing outside the tones
with a preference for
metronome existence

~~~~~~~~~~~~

glazed magenta
excessively clear
where the heart ignores
what’s played maggoire

layers of teak in
sandalwood chains
give way to cedar
reminding me
of pine . . .

bury me then
on knotted boughs
with cones beneath
my feet and cover me
thistled

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Consequently-

      I have grown hollow, a reed without tail failing to chase.  Clawed red-lined past disposition, where once I found the presence of a pond in porcelain.  The moon robbed me of substance, and the sun - the sun, burnt my fingers raw in grip.  I lived only for the eclipse, the closing of hinge, the huddle of hibernation in tile becoming mud.  They were cool against my cheek, an offer of respite to which I owed nothing.

Conation


Imagery comes by way of the Nile
in obelisks worth
I think of Cleopatra’s Needle
where movement 
deadly and  sharp
strikes irony
in the form of an Asp

The stealth of its venom
rises from inside out
and I view the adder of self
with derision
For how could one possibly
think
to control nature?

I build pyramids of thought
sidestepping jackals
for the weight of my heart
has never been light and
guidance from Anubis
means nothing to me

Osiris knows me as Set
and I have no desire
for my internal organs
to be watched over by
the Sons of Horus

I’ll just keep those
to myself . . .

two-by-four blues

her weight’s displaced
whatever hasn’t fallen
creaks in the groan of
retrieval

the following, is a very early work of mine.  one, that continues to plague me - so I'm going to pop it up and look at it a while.  what I'd really like to get away from within this work is the  "list"  quality it  seems to have.


Completion of the ten hour workday,
She seeks comfort found within a book.
The clocks' chiming stirs realization,
As a silent phone fails to ring.
Consideration offers no option,
A violent slap against peruse.

Hours slip past in contemplation,
Numbing, there remains no escape.
Mindset permeable revolving,
A full circle without an end.
Incarcerated by expectations,
Her spirit betrays her body.

Caught up by righteous indignation,
She's sojourning on arid wasteland.
Mouth parched, unable to quench her thirst
Heart driven beyond hope of solace
Forlorn, it shatters disassembled
Blueprints for repair, unreadable.

The tower rises, built with arctic mortar,
it's parapets guarded in self-pride.
Chasm created of vile hatred
Acid will melt any penetration.
Speech forms words only to dissipate
Unpalatable upon her tongue.

Sentiment gnawed becomes putrefied
Desperation writhing full-length
Three in the morning bereft emptiness
Hell-bent plagued by demons
Reverberating untold regret
Time spent wasted in futility.

Inebriated excuse given by a stranger
Her ears beyond the remote blocking
A need for release is rudimentary
She sobs dry-eyed unheard
Obliterating a passion unstrung
She falls into  "Abyss"

.

love this, N
great, simply

Sanford and Son, Poet at Large!  A nice shock of recognition here, think of my own wordful piles.

Rick

iridescent  sorrow

another day
strung endless as
a trout-line without bait

adipose churned in
broiled recognizance
leaves nothing to
ingenuous

October 1

     - what I wouldn’t give to capture that slightest of breeze I found waiting. . . .
I’d just finished work in-between   “dicker-do”   back-in-forth, back-in-forth, I’ll pay this much for your house and  you’ll counter where  meanwhile  - I’ll just keep working.  did I mention the hard drive went pop? well it did.  mid-morning, right as a woman was asking about teething products.  I’m thinking I might’ve caused it because babies have always cut teeth and there just isn’t  a cure.  (although I kept pounding the keyboard while the woman behind you wanted to know why her cat’s medicine wasn't ready yet)
     but anyways, there I was - with all the bones in my knee rubbed stiff.  cartilage would be more accurate, but to me the marble-lisation is now bone.  (yes, I know, not a word) ten hours, ten hours, and what I wouldn’t give to go home to that house I wanted and just submerge myself in the pool out back.  water. water, always helps.  I spend a small fortune on therapy that consists mostly on your basic swim exercise.  it works. it’s almost like the fluid beneath the cap restores itself somehow.
      rambling per usual I see, but here’s the deal . . . from the moment I opened the door on my way out, the breeze sauntered.  sauntered, in the weave of fall.  though the leaves have not yet turned you could catch the whiff of their passing.  pre-twilight without pink, moisture perking the grass like spring.  a gauze of cool sealed tight with renewal but hinting of snow.  I saw the crocus then, deep within my mind.  All four seasons opened and closed in one breath.   where the wave washed weary and my gait became that of a child.  sauntered, it surely sauntered.
     


(and - looking back, I feel it was a sort of omen.  that feeling that washed me clean beyond caring, that moment of restoration.  because, because, when I got home . . . I found they finally took our offer, and so - we'll be moving soon   ;D)

you're dafter than me, nutty-splog  thx 

You've the knack, Nora, to make us feel as if we've read something about ourselves.

could it be ?

the eloquence of words
is not more
than aped mimulus in
tangling moss

a concealment for dirt
filigreed slate lies
charcoaled with green

persistent against the storm
but lacking the need
for bloom

two tubs of mood
a bucket of nature
and a prism of bleak

In catching up with my favorite folks I came across this [among so much other fine stuff] and loved the Nora-ness of it and how well it fits the sometimes me.  Not here, not so far, in Baja -- but, you know.  you know.

lynn

 two tubs of mood  -

 where
but for a slight omission and
changing of vowel I’d soak
my toes clean up to chin and
soon become tadpoled

a bucket of nature -
(my favorite of strolls)

remember that old logging road?

the overgrown barbed
twisting my step as heard
by frogs and the
silence found
encroached

it was there
the carrots of illness fell
diced and gathered
some peas

where the mist
glazed me in frost as
I pondered retrieve

a (prison) of bleak -

stealing my sight
by means of medication
but not my feet

I knew those woods
as well as my hand
and I miss them as much
as the frogs lie sleeping


so good to see you, my friend.  you made me think, and so - you made me smile.  hope you’re having a wonderful time down there.  me? well, I’m in the process for what I hope will be our final move.  (if not -I’m not going)  seriously though, what kind of nut moves the first week of november?  me! that’s who.  happy though - perhaps soon, I can get back to - whatever makes me -me.  I’ll have some fruit trees and grass there and two well placed hearths. (upstairs and down)  no pond though, no pond.  however - it does have a swimming pool.  and though you’re probably the only one who’ll get this - when we looked at this particular house, we were out walking the back yard, the pool and all . . . and there was a frog in it! an honest to god frog!  so of course, you know, that was  “it”  for me.  lmao!!!! 
silly girl . . . a creature of unknown origin blended by swirl and suckled in mud

p.s. forgot to mention - it has a mudroom! and you know how I feel about mudrooms. 
tippy-toe dance web-foot jubilee :D





 

If I made you smile, you should just see the grin bending these old jowls here!  Yes, to the frogs, to the tadpoling of toe dunks right up the trunks of us who make moves, and more moves, leapfrogging biscuits -- let the peas scatter where they may, november moves are proof of life and I say wiggle it, girlfriend, scud away!

moons on the halfshell

the white
(found in my fingernails)
corners an eye

hand-pressed
against the mouth
with a casual stance

 they grow without
thought
without circumstance
of all around

peaceful-
they ‘re nothing but that
 . . . and I,
(therefore)
like them


silly girl

what part of you missed
gnarling an apple’s core?

the aril surrounding seed
no more than annoyance
a pith snagged against the gum
but easily swallowed
nonetheless

as fruit follows
the bloom in roll and
fragrance carves
the heart

may you always have orchards son,
but as for me -

tongued cheek and
hard knots are nothing
but life grown stiff

 — thank you, N
you just wrote my script

t

as I’m washing my hair
I think of SOS pads
as if I could scrub myself clean
polish the warmth and
become inaugural

but no -
my soul bears reference
to peach pits
pocked indifference and
a slight cling to flesh


     there.  I wasn’t going to use the word “soul” as I’m not inclined but somewhere I lost the “what ever “ in the wind of the towel.  the cat needed to be fed, the litter box changed, and then of course I had to scald my coffee past burnt.   (not really but I’m in need of a jump start)
     friday looms large. the signing of another ten years hard labor and I question my logic.  so much emphasis on buy and sell, buy and sell.  this home, this home was built in seventy-three.  I think of this.  what I was doing back then . . .

     probably sewing triangles set deep in my jeans, the deeper the bell the “cool”er you were.  a road trip with nothing but sandals, a loaf of bread, mustard, and bologna.  the  norfolk ferry, reached only by hitching a ride with chicken coops.  so naïve, with only the road ahead.  periwinkle blue.
      periwinkle blue, the shade of his eyes trailing green in pensacola.  for all my sunsets seen, no orb held more brilliance than fade.  I say this because sometimes, sometimes, if I allow myself the wander, I think of it that way.  a great big ball of gas fired from within.  it rises and falls, and eventually grows dark.  the heart bleeds magenta- carved deep with pink, yellow, orange, and red, before the bruise of purple. . .

     I wonder if I’ve sold myself out.  these later years also spent in a vagabond type fashion.  I did the time I think.  those years of acceptability, the yard, the jones and scouts.  I left it all for yet another adventure and still found myself right back where I was born.  ten years spent gone, and all I can think of - is how much I want that yard again . . . but also - as hard as it is to admit- right now- this moment- I can't remember what color the "current his" eyes are . .  how sad to become a realist without dreams.

grey, they're most definitely - grey.
     

I'm tempted to talk biology or perhaps spout a bit of physics
and abut xy-jazz, well, so it goes, babies and me are one of the same —
I just wish I had a mom like you, one day maybe


ciao



T






.

packing and porcupine quilled -
an arch found rolled between the shoulders and cheshire's the dog

     seven twenty-five -  back scratching a wooden spoon while feeding the cat a tin of tuna.  don’t worry,  I say.  he can’t see us right now.   it isn’t as if-  it matters anyhow, their relationship is more than odd, but it IS tuna, and the man does so love his tuna.   tsk, tsk, tsk, leave my boxes alone, I say.
     I watch them you know.  watch how the cat becomes a dog every evening.  a dog, because no matter the time, he seems to know the man’s arrival.  from nowhere he comes running to sit right by the door and wait.  he waits for the man to come in, pound his side like a dog, call him “dumb-ass” and smash his face in screw-like twists that encompass his entire head.  after which - he’ll follow him around as if he were leashed and heeled before settling the moment he sits.  but not the man’s lap. no, it’s his feet.  he settles at his feet.
   and - I won't mention the time I caught them dancing in the kitchen, but the man was singing all the same. so I think he can share his tuna, don't you?

 :D

err, keep it coming n

cioa

t

     . . .there I was - attempting to find humor.  well maybe not humor per-say, but a means of entertainment for the start of my morning.  tons of work today, tons, and tons.  packing, of course, but that’s how it occurred to me - that the cat behaves differently between.  between - he and I. (maybe it should be him versus he but who cares? they‘re both male and so is the cat) 
     AnD - the cat is a cat with me.  he loves his snuggles, forces his way up on my lap (regardless of  preference) and then rubs his face to mine.  he plays with my hair at inopportune moments and is quick to remove whatever fastener I happen have in it.  he thinks I belong to him and he’s kind of like the one he plays dog to.  where I am his personal plaything - the man is, his master.  tsk, tsk. . . it simply comes down to males in a generic type sense.  really I mean no harm, foul, nor do I harbor disgust for their general attitude - it’s simply - I’m aware.
       
 blah, blah, blah . . .

     so I was off to the new house by ten with my mother in tow, and believe me - it is - a tow of sorts.  I mean it takes twenty minutes to load her in the car.  her walker, her potty seat for height, and then there’s her wheelchair.  the potty seat is because one leg is fused and she can’t get up and down without height.  it’s hard to explain but the bottom line is - she needs it.  I can’t lift her if she gets stuck and I’d never hear the end of it if I had to call the fire department.

     but again - I digress . . .because . . . because, what I really meant to say - was that earlier . . . earlier, when I was finding ways to amuse myself - that, at the end of the day - I’d know. . .

     make no mistake, I don’t believe in karma, no reincarnation, no true sense of religion, whether it be Muslim or Christianity . . . I don’t believe in anything other  than  what I set myself about.  the feeling, one gets from within is not garnered or governed by religion.  if religion becomes religion I find it worthless in hypocrisy.  if ever I answer to some higher being per-say, it will simply be that and it will only be between the two.  me and that, and that and me…from that aspect I’m sure it will be. (and notice-  per-say)
     
 AgAiN  -  I lose myself. . . .

     this house, this house, this house. . .and I’ve been told in recent months I didn’t know how to appreciate what I had. . . but - I ask you this - how does one know ?

     my children know nothing of me.  the place of their growing covered in independence self-righteous.  I was never a person, never a person separate from acceptable.  and I was, I truly was. . .AND - it was that part -THAT PART- that saw them grown.
     the place of mudrooms, Cherokee blood, and butchering hogs.  the place where - in later years and several illnesses later  I pull myself up and bare my throat wide for slaughter.  so be it, I say, so be it, but look me in the eye. look me straight on and don't tell me "you'll look past it"   because I'm not made that way.

     such a side I have.  that yearn for hands my own and a backbone bent past break as I walked the yard.  it’s not about me, it’s not about mine, it’s simply the pleasure of a hard day’s work in crafting. the waft of hand, churned goat cheese and pressed pasta.  I could spend hours and hours and hours . . .

     ten years, three illnesses, drunk and drunk and drunk …and I could say sorry . . but I’m not.  I’m simply - not.  but still- I thought of you . . . I never once told my mother "I'd look past it" - not once, for all she did.  you can't imagine the fear I felt within watching her climb the stairs to my new house. . . you can't imagine . . .because . . .because, you're not made that way but - I'll tell you this . .
     today, today I had the stereo cranked, george throughgood helping to pull the baseboards and sand them down, and we were laughing - my mother and I    - were laughing. . . .

yes, indeed. . .

I have always like your use of repetition. It evokes the mood and emotion of the moment. It makes your thoughts more delicate and poetic, somehow.

Love your 'moons', Nora.

milner

do beaches have snow?

     we were discussing conch shells, an area out back, red rocks, and an old weathered bench.  I said I wanted to do a miniature seascape  and he said he didn’t want to use the shells because they’d become weathered with the snow and the changing of seasons… duhhhh . . . .
     I wondered where he thinks they came from.  I mean they’re  not something grown in the average store. so just for kicks -- because he’s capable of such anal-osity -- I pulled four or five different shells out from separate boxes and then asked him- which were from what area?  I mean we have some rocks from the Dead Sea but throw ‘em in with some other rocks and you can’t tell.  they’re rocks.  yes, yes, they’re medicinal I know.
     

Dear Nora

The imagery and storytelling are very engaging here.
And the ending
they’re rocks.  yes, yes, they’re medicinal I know.
 is superb.

smiles
silent louts

     this house, is - warm. comfortable, without creaks.  modest, with splash.
I suppose the splash depends on the frog, but for me it’s perfect.  so perfect in fact, I’ve yet to finish cleaning the town home for resell. shame, shame, shame. . . .
     the yards are large here, an older neighborhood  before builders were massed without conscience of bottom line contradicting the comfort of space.  I say this because on my first morning here, when I raised the blinds covering the doors to the deck and pool area - what - could possibly- be - out there? ? ?
     a fox !!! an honest-to-god fox!!! he was absolutely gorgeous, but he was not a he as I soon discovered in the next few days . . .I could be wrong of course, but I was so excited to have him/her there that I went and bought some meat to set out.  I’ve never seen a real fox, painted one once, but never had the pleasure and was quite pleased to find a bit of accuracy in my depiction.
     the color of maple leaves strewn after the fall, a coat fading to black earthed paws so rich one only had need to  inhale the presence of clouds puffed in a sprig of tail.  glorious - I’ve never really understood the true glory of such a word but the fox was all and more. . .I felt it within, and it was important to feel that way. one can never have enough of what lies within.  within, is inherent to every living thing and integral to finding the means of survival -no matter what.
     to me - it is the point of being. the place that sets you apart from all else.  the place that makes me curl myself up beside the fire, stretch my toes out naked, blow smoke up the chimney with a glass of  Beaujolais and want nothing but silence in echoed refrain. . . .

     two hearths  - nothing but fireplaces really - but set above floor level with wide berths for sitting.  I can perch myself on either one but the rec-room is my favorite for bookcases line the walls in glossed timber.  they weren’t a week ago- they were painted - but I stripped them down to gloss.  I’ll never understand why someone paints wood.  to me, it’s just not- natural. . . .
     I hung my fox in the rec-room, (I caught him on camera) but not above the fire.  I hung it across.

Smile here, a warm one, for the image of you curled near a fire, naked toes and all.

me

vases
more than a dozen plucked
from an upper shelf

large
some of them massive
in the early years of
orchids and rose wear . . .

     I was thinking of this - yesterday - yesterday, in the final packing and clean.  there were other words, other words, I can’t recall . . .but I was thinking of them . .AnD - I was, also, singing.  I was singing a sap song, one I’d never really cared for, something about  “my eyes adored you” and the “my” was drawn in long strokes of how you (he) once felt.  He, felt that way - and there are still moments I see it buried within.
      I was never and always in love with him.  wheels churn within my mind - the grind of meal on stone, the fire that never stills regardless of leaven or lack thereof.  banked against the world in sustenance he is the worst and the best of all I have to offer.  he brings it to me against my own rationale, my own thinking , my own way, and makes me turn inside out and back again.  he is the knead - to my core.
      I, was a girl.  a woman with five children, a history of pain, an outbreak from normal having acquired my own home, my own yard, my own life.  I had everything and nothing, because- I didn’t have time.  sure, sure, sure I had an inkling - you don’t get that far and not know but I never had anyone give me free reign . .
      It  wasn’t free of course, of course - it wasn’t, but, he stuck it out. . .  before, before I had the breast cancer I’d go on wild tangents. I’d throw things at him and once I threw I wine glass so hard that pieces of glass stuck in the wall for no reason . . . and one, one, hit his eye.
      I don’t know why I did that . . I don’t. . .but - I laughed. . .I laughed because I'd had my ribs broke, my cheekbone fractured, my optic nerve damaged, and my wrist shattered.  I laughed, and laughed, and laughed. . . .I laughed because, because, because, I laughed. . .
      He- was never, never, that person.  the person that left a scar it took seventy-two stitches to close, but somewhere I blamed him somehow and I wanted to know - I really, really, really, wanted -to know. . . I needed to know
      All that - I can’t describe - but I was horrible, absolutely- horrible.  His mother had the breast cancer, she died in less than six months and he was seventeen.  seventeen, and lost . . .beyond words. . . . when I got it - possibly because of how I’d been, he turned away . . .I discovered he’d been talking to another woman and as much as he denied any other involvement I shut him out . . . but- he stayed . . .he’s always -stayed . . ..

     
orchids and roses
empty vases -
and love's not found
in glass . . .

still -
I kept them -
and only - he
knows why

how it is how it is when we place a hand on something that is what it is, and isn't ...
the writing rips the heart, N.  rips the heart.

bueno, bueno
N

ciao

d

it needs some cleaning lynn - I'll come back it.  it's been awhile since I poured a bit outright - rough, I think . . . I can make it work eventually but the thing is  . . . I think, I might, be ready again . . .it's been a long time, a lot of things have happened . . . but I'm home- I think.  It's taken a couple a years but I'm back where I belong without mountainsi . . .you should come see me my friend, it's a very modest house but it's definitely me. . . let me know, I'd be more than happy to send you a ticket. N

Keep the light on for me ... you just never know!  I never know, that is.  Never thought I'd be living in baja, but here I am.  Isn't Kansas on the way to Cottonwood from here?  Thanks, N.  Save a glass of chablis for me.

xo

it is what it is . . .

September fades October in suckling green
and November brings an occasional fall of
the last remaining leaf . . .

and yes, I meant singular.
un-plural-ed by mass in
desperate cling

not me,
not now,
my branch,
my tree . . .

whispers, against the wind.
and some will stay until
the newness of bud
snaps aged with shoved

but, for the tree . . .
there's only the wait
for snow

     she’s giving it all away.  cold pack jars, canners, enamel wear pans with blue as thick as varicose mottles parchment and fades to brown. . . .brown, like the leaves beneath my feet, the crunch of my heart, and the circles etched deep beneath her eyes.  macular degeneration, where dropping a stitch in a handmade quilt brings forth the brilliance of tears and all I can think of - is,  . . .if I could save just one,  just one, from those eyes of hers, I could find enough light for restoration.
     bring me my pictures girl.  and elvis is singing “blue christmas” all the while she’s dividing them up.  icicles, and the softness of what she once called a sugar snow, is found in her hands flecked thick with ginger.  gingersnaps, or was it that she called them love-bites?  I can’t recall.  I only remember the years I’d complain over a few freckles that popped sunlight like glass.  a scatter of rippled ponds.
     I never liked them.  I wanted to be just like daddy and just turn brown.  I did of course, of course I did, but with an underlying red tone and freckles on the bridge.  irish indian, english bred, north versus south, dark hair blended to almost black, and taught more couth than necessary in holding a stiff upper lip.
     your granddad made that table, yes momma, I know.  I want you to have it.  your father used to run his hands over it when times were bad and talk to his dad.   yes momma, I know.  of course you have the china cabinet, his mother’s, her mother’s, 1912.  yes momma. I have nothing of mine.  my parents were simple.  I’ve only my father’s axe and my mother’s hair combs.  she wore them for years, one of the few things she ever had new.  it’s okay momma. it’s more than enough. . .
     and I was fine, really I was, until she came to her bible . . .
I knew she was done - right then. that she'd made her way to silence, and was left waiting to leave. that all I’d have left, were these conversations in feeling her way out.  laced with memory beyond words, a doiley of tatted lace, the cast of a dutch oven bleeds the aroma of a long forgotten sunday's roast.  baptists, we were baptists back then with honors bestowed in providing a meal for the current pastor. don’t cry girl, I want you to have it.  yes momma,. . . I know . . choked like the weeds off the back porch in winter, I know, momma.
     
 the quiet she holds within, is somehow, harder, than all the agony she's endured these past few years.  Godspeed momma, Godspeed, with all my heart. . . I'm ready now . . .   
     
I know you are girl, I know, you are.

I was thinking of you
recalling an old loveseat
pulled out from the trash.

You were a baby back then
more of a toddler I suppose
and you’d run your cars
through a cinder block used
as a substitute leg.

Nothing
I had nothing
in the early years
just an old loveseat
a cinder block leg
some hot wheels
and you . . .

I definitely had
you. . .

beyond looking

the ease of living
should always be
un- bartered . . .

words -
are like trivets
passed beneath dishes.
comfort, in the ease
of communion.

my day was this,
my day was that,
and flow means nothing
but the simple of
saying,  it is.

     on examination - the wall against the fireplace is - papered.  three weeks I’ve lived here and never noticed . . .I abhor -wallpaper. absolutely. the entryway is covered in a grass type twig, up and down, a muted green touched brown.  touched, as in very faint.  one can’t really see it but I imagine it’s there.  I imagine because it’s there, a slight blend of earth hidden beneath tone, and the hallway mimics the same texture but is done - in white.  I like it, I like it fine, but - it wouldn’t be my choice.  I don’t like- wallpaper.
     I had some once.  put it up myself.  it was a sort of vinyl-type stuff I covered the eat-in kitchen with.  my kids were young and messy, messy, messy.  I couldn’t understand the stains you see.  how you could sit down to dinner and even though no-one threw food, spots, would somehow find their way to the walls.  so, I did it - covered every inch in vinyl wallpaper, that first house, I owned. 
      houses - I’ve only had two, only two I owned solely.  I had the one with the wallpaper I did, and- I had the one that ultimately cost me everything jointly I walked away from, and- the one I bought after that, the one I bought alone after broken bones , betrayal, and fourteen years of hell…. so two, just two.  I’ve only owned two. . .
     this house - this house is mine without asking. but of course I did, I wanted it without asking.  wanted it before ever seeing the inside  this is it, I said.  this is it right now, right here, I know . . . I know . . I know . . . and he gave it to me, twenty-five grand up and over the budget, but - but he knew also.  knew I needed it.  needed the span of yard, the fruit trees, the maples and oaks, and the fox was non-existent at that point but came to be a bonus. . . I felt it you see, I felt it. . .
     I spent hours last week chipping plates and glassware.  hours and hours and hours.  the accumulation of years - the good, the bad, the ugly.  a piece of every dish I’d ever owned throughout my lifetime.  AnD - I took the kitchen island down to bare, laid a piece of cement board,  mortar, and then, set the pieces scattered . . .it was so much of me. . . so much . . .and the overlay of grout became my heart . . .I glazed it of course, the bad is nothing but bad, but for a touch of gloss where all becomes one and the cracks become nothing but veneer . . .veneer, no-one is ever more than that to the outside world - they can't see you - they simply can't.
     I wasn’t sure he’d like it. I wasn’t sure at all. . . I wanted to be like a sort of child.  a child at my grandma’s knee where everything I did was perfect.  the same held true in my laundry room - (one could tell it’d once been a mudroom and I wanted to “keep” that feeling)  I wove a basket from limbs off the maple, soaked them pliable for days - (the bark fell off) and bent them round. and all he could say was - if you leave me, you're not taking that.  (it's a fuckin' clothes hamper !!!! I said.  but watch me pull the island - I'll see you in hell for sure.)
     such a strange relationship made up from many things.   he, is my friend - always - my friend, first. as friends -I'm always first with him, and- there are so many things left over from childhood. . . when I say I'm first - I don't mean he drops everything for me, I simply mean, there's nothing about me he'd ever let go. 
     my mother wasn’t perfect, in fact, by today’s standards - or even back then - she was very abusive.  extremely so.  but now, now, when I look back - I thank her.  she created the need for creativity in what she taught, and also - she created - the means.