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’