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Weekend Share #28

Thank you, Trina, for letting us share some of our work!

itsgoodtobecrazysometimes's avatarIts good to be crazy Sometimes

I was going to name this one, kids go back to school on Monday but decided against it, however I am celebrating the fact its the last weekend and not just because it means Monkey is going back to school, but we have nothing planned for this weekend, there are no builders coming, the weather is set to be nice, so we can do anything we want and the one thing monkey wants to do (apart from Legoland) is go to the park and have a picnic.

That we can do, so while I am doing that, lets get some great posts and blogs you can all have a nose around.

blog party1

If you have never done this before, give it a go, you lose maybe 30 seconds of your life adding a link and you never know who might see it, I will, my mum probably will, so its well…

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My Mary

I wake up this morning
my heart is so full
I’ve made your long tresses
from the blackest of wool

your dark eyes a-shining
your cheeks rosy red
your lashes reclining
when I put you to bed

imbued with a smile
that’s just starting to show
and so graceful of motion
each movement I know

so spirit, enfold me
with all of your charms
my dearest, just hold me
in your motherly arms.

my marionette
my mannequin
my Mary

Buying tomorrow

Congratulations, Sir!……………..Sir!
You have bought into
your Third Century!

I am one hundred and ninety nine years young.
By virtue of my accidental genes,
and the continuance thereof,
I have bought into my fourth lifetime.
Tomorrow is my 200th birthday.

This will be my third Fading.
Tomorrow I will have the injection.
It will be into my spine.
It will hurt.
And then……………

In my first life, seventy two.
In my second, sixty three.
In this one, sixty four.
I have felt sudden violence, then blackness.
I have felt the slow ravages of disease and pain.
I have felt the time worn festering sadness
that makes one want to skitter quickly up that last hill
and jump into the uncertain void.

And now, this injection is peremptory.
They have enough of the serum.
They will not wait for the accidents and agonies.
I am to carry on.

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

It is tomorrow as I write.
The hurt has come, the sudden flush, the pinkish tears, the ringing ears.
The buzzing electrical feeling in the old nodes of pain.
Their cancellation.  Their outflowing down my cheeks in impossible cascades.
A warmth in the stomach pit.  A widening of crystallized vision.

They have left me, blessed in a white bed.
New clothes, shiny shoes, hot shower running.
In a room with curtains of knitted navy blue.
I sit up, then stand.  I do not part the curtains,
but instead I let the light of day love me,
filtering through the navy mesh,
like the snowy screen of an off-channel television.

In this glow, I test my first paces.
At the window, I part the drapes.
I see it is still early spring,
the low bushes and twiglets bent with ice.

There are crazy birds, darting, darting.
Seemingly directionless,
these messengers of mirth.
I smile, and lick a salty tear from my lip.

The birds.
To me now,
they are but flying seeds with button-like eyes.

The seeds of tomorrow.

#11 Dream

I went to the new bakery in town.
It had an opening soon sign on it for two years.
Today was the day.
It has a very small door,and is dimly lit inside.
Bells ring as I enter. I think I am the first.
High ceiling. All wood everywhere.
Ship’s deck planking for a floor.
Sculptured gargoyles leering from on high.
Three sweaty individuals are there, with strange smears upon their aprons.
One is conducting the permeating music, and holds a cleaver.
One is behind the glass counter of baked delights, and looks at me askance.
One is at the cash desk, rubbing his hands in anticipation,
beeswax candles adorning his neck.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
I point at a tart, ask the baker what it is.
He looks down his long nose and says, as if I should know,
That is our Montessori. I say is that something like mincemeat?
He spits, bows mockingly, and goes for a coffee break.
The singsong tunes increase in pitch, the cleaver is juggled.
The candlestick maker lights the beeswax wicks
and sets his hair on fire, smiling.
I hear and feel a deep thrumming rumbling beneath the floor.
Then a hard Boom, and the floorboards lift a little.
We’ve been hit! says the candle man.
He makes the sign of a gun to his head, then collapses into ashes.
Out from the back room glides a little red haired boy, sweeping.
He motions to me, so I bend down and listen.
He says come back tonight.  They’re not here then.
I make to leave, and the surly baker throws a tart at me.
In the darkness of 2am, I jump into my little car and head back up.
It’s a pedal car, from when I was five.
All is pitch black on the street, but there’s a light coming from the keyhole.
I blow into it, and the door clicks open.
The kid is still sweeping, but motions me to the back room.
Hanging from the vaulted ceiling, there’s a block and tackle.
Attached to the business end is a giant steel claw,
like the ones from the win every time glass cases full of prizes from kiddieland.
It holds the body of something or someone, in a cocoon of sheer pantyhose.
A trap door is underneath, and the kid opens it.
The thrumming and booming increases as he lowers the sack down into the hole.
Then, more obscene noises from beneath.
Up comes the metal claw, minus its bag.  The noises stop.
It’s cheaper this way, he says.

 

Redneck Christmas

It used to be a running joke around our house that anybody who left their Christmas lights up all year had to be a redneck because they were just too lazy to take them down.

Well, now I am of that species too, I guess. It’s been a few years since I’ve had the courage or the balance to do ladders. Our lights are permanently affixed to the eavestroughs, so they stay up 24 seven 365 days year. The problem that developed this past winter was that the plug-in for those lights became encased in a big knob of ice and then covered in about six inches of snow. So, every time I turn our porch lights on at night, our house is illuminated as well with the nice green Christmas lights. We are the only ones on our street to have Christmas in April. My wife is somewhat embarrassed by this and does occasionally remind me that I need to get up that ladder, take a hammer to the damn ice, and pull the plug please and thank you.

I don’t know. I think it looks kind of nice. I think I’ll hire somebody to do it when spring time actually arrives.

Dripping from a dead dog’s eye

some days, more than I would like,
I wake up and think of Jude.
I feel the pain,
but can’t take the sad song and make it better.
I am too quick to anger.
too busy, parrying bullets of anxiousness.
you cannot reach me,
though I am not at all sure if I am worth reaching.
I have made you exhaust your bag of tricks,
and now, we sit. we sit. I cannot…..
I must go for a walk. I won’t be long, okay?
Watch your hockey game. Feed the cats chips.

it’s cold, and I didn’t bother with the woolies tonight.
I download that step counter, then head out the door.
Brisk, brisk, keep that pace brisk, like the doc said.
The doc that wouldn’t sign me into the gym.
I courageously or foolishly decide to take the long route.
forty eight hundred and ninety five steps.
something to proudly enter into my blood pressure log book.

all that I see and hear tonight
presents itself to me in the grey light of negativity.
aggressive dogs barking from behind fences.
someone detained by the Police. They are crying.
an escalating domestic quarrel for all to hear.
further along, a bunch of young toughs competing for belligerence.
their vile dialog making them big men in the schoolyard.

I remember there’s something I need at the store.
I stop there to take a breath and warm up.
there’s a lady behind the cash, my own age I think,
and I feel that she sees me, more than I would like to be seen.
there are people behind me waiting, but she wants to chat me up,
touch her little glow of kindness to me.
Christ, If I had had a business card with my number,
I would have slipped it to her.

a few blocks to go, and there is a screech of tires, then screaming.
a girl’s dog has run off leash and been run over.
she is bent over, crying so hard she is gagging.
someone is trying to comfort her.
I go to the small group that are trying to help the animal.
but he is dead, the darkness oozing from his eyes.
I do not know what to do.
Home now.
How was the walk?
Cold, I say.