Love – Page 5 – Aremyfeetofftheground

Waste not, want not

For his end time,
we flocked together from our compass points,
and gathered by his bedside.
Like the fresh faces on Auntie Em’s farm
after Dorothy’s dream.

In his life, he must have dreamt us
into something that held him happy
until this day.

His plugs and wires and tubes
seemed connected to an underground cloud,
and what it fed to him was bitter.
Today was his day for the punching of tickets,
like Tom Hanks on the Polar Express.
But, inspirational? Not so much.

Each one showed our other face
just as we were looking at his,
and we wanted to plug our ears
as he spewed secrets
that we dismissed as drug-induced,
but knew to be true.

And what do you do with the Never Dids,
the filthy kids and the hiding hids?
The thrown cans of salmon
and the smashing plates.
Oh God, we were sorry,
and a group hug just wasn’t in the cards.

Winded

Third or fourth wind,
I think.
Pissed at the life sedimentary.
A change is as good as a rest.
Round and round the mulberry bush.
Hah. And I see that my old cat
knows he’s bony now.
He challenges the thin air,
and slingshots himself
into the five yard dash.
Then, saunters to his hairy bed.
All humdrum and glum.
I’m thinking we are partners
in the big sad,
and he knows he can’t take care of me
no more.

The tree

Lest I should do it wrongly,
help me.
Get a seed,
clean and viable.
In its fleshy pith,
the veins of memory.
Show me what should be
the depth,
the best earth,
the time of day,
whether sun or shade.
Give a benediction
so that, in years that I will not know,
the tree will be understood.

From afar.

I’ve seen how the animals trust you.
Like a shepherd with her flock.
Their spirits are simple and pure,
and they know you are gentle, firm, and never nervous.
They take their pleasure from your understanding,
and from your acceptance of their gifts.
And me?
I am for home now.

My Man

hunch up those shoulders
carry that hollow barrel chest
on spindly trembling legs
practice your ghostly motions
stare obscenely out of eyes like yellowed olives
your gates are closed for good
and i stand
holding you up
listening to disconnected mutter
while you piss black tar
dribbling onto the floor
and you say “I’m sorry”
my man
oh my man
there’s a hole in my heart.

Silver bells

And the man said
“Well, it’s time to clear the driveway now.”

And Heart said
“I will go along.”

And the man said
“Let’s grab that big plastic scoop.
It runs like a sleigh, and carries a lot.”

And Hands said
“Don’t knuckle under”

And Knees said
“Don’t buckle under”

And the man said, breathing hard,
“It is good to be out here.
Even with the cold. Even with the work.
It makes me feel, you know, somehow worthy.
It will be good for someone.”

And Coyote said
“Yes.”

And Heart said
“Take a break.”

And Lungs said
“Yes.”

Now Bob (the cat) had been playing
under the Christmas tree,
and was covered in ribbons and bells and needles,
and, before you knew it, had run clean out the back door.

And man, finally having finished, leaned upon his shovel
to survey the smoothness of his work.
And Coyote woo wooed his approval,
and the bells on Bob’s tail rang.

And Brain, well SHE said
“The tea is ready, sweetheart. Bedtime soon. Bob will be back.”

***

Image from Pinterest

if I had a field

If I had a field,
I would not ask for much.
Just so by so by so…

Fences, side on each,
but not contrived.
Along the ell of the dusty path,
evergreens tall and dense.
Shelter for scared drivers in winter’s wrath.
At right angles to the pines,
a long long hedge of beech,
kept in tender trim.

At true north, a vine clad wood,
ivy underfoot and climbing high.
Predators and prey.
Sharp eyed owls,
ravens plotting.
Rising scent of pan sized mushrooms for my plate.
Barbed wire long buried.
Good neighbors that way.

The east wall would not be a wall,
but a salamanders’ creek.
Hinted at, (to one approaching, eyes shaded with a long hand)
by a stand of bulrush and devil’s paintbrush.
Summer’s breed of bugs, food for the lizard-like,
messengers to the flowers of fire.

Walk would I, only,
in this sleepy time of life.
Nothing would I take,
save the proffered mushrooms,
filling my canvas bag.
Or, on a day, perhaps a wild turkey
from the bold and black flock.

And, when I die,
please,
do not burn me up.
Put me, rather, in a canvas sling.
Even an old tent, fallen into disuse.
Prepare my place by the bulrush bank.
Put me in, close, so close, to my Earth.

Bring with you a seedling of mountain ash,
for my field has none.
At the close of day, plant it well, if you can.
This, my marker, will show out where I lie,
and what I loved.

(Image: Pixabay)

Some days

Some days,
it’s the tilt of a chubby face,
bright sun on rosy cheek,
smiles a daring smile.
Holders of doors,
thankyous said.
A girl with a broken wiper
gets help in the cold,
and someone lets you in on the highway.
Some days,
we’re in the matrix.

A cry in the dark

A certain Ouija
still conjures you,
wavering but fading.
It was not long ago
that I could see you clearly,
in sober thought,
connecting perfect pixels
in the 3D puzzles.
What you said,
how you moved with odd gesture.
All reimagined.
All lost.
No second chances.
In the dull I sit.

Sense you all

You won’t have to tell me
how to touch.
Where to begin.
What emboldens,
or brings wild abandon.

With ease do i see your gilded cage
and its fearsome keeper.

And, we know why rules were made,
don’t we?

Your measured steps tell of fear,
not of love.

I have a fear too,
but of a different kind.

Your ceaseless radiation
is my courage.

Together, we’ll be dangerous.