Unbidden

an old man with nicotine stained hands
pours his fifth shot of Jameson’s
he sits at his ancient arborite table
with a hand rolled ciggie burning away uselessly
his blackened paw lolls there in its traced-out spot
and the ciggie suddenly burns into his naugahyde skin.
He stands, knocking over his old chair that bleeds stuffing,
and the last words I ever heard him say were
I am puzzled.
and I remember what the morning brought for him.
next
a four year old girl runs tauntingly from her mother at the market
a true hellion with freckles and Shirley Temple hair
she’s in black patent leather shoes with a strap
an anachronism in a pinafore
next
a frail old lady I knew as my own
lies in her bed with a tin bucket by her side
to throw up in
and she says go home to your wife and kids, go home
next
a full face phantom of a troubled woman I knew
from group, who seems troubled no longer
and smiles to me
and it makes me glad
but her eyes change horribly
and a front tooth drops out
what have I done?
next
from decades back
an accidental eavesdropping
the giants in our little lives
they talk about we two brothers
but there is no love in it
they talk about our two big brothers and the drinking
and the girlfriends who are never good enough
almost to sleep
and then, there is Rosie, and we are thirteen
she is the first to ever like me
and I throw all of my clumsy love
to her soft pink cashmere
fluttering lashes
and silver braces

The girl in the group (updated)

Nancy was in group therapy  when I attended, for weekly sessions, some three years ago.  We were there for depression, anxiety, you may know the drill.  About twelve of us would sit at a large round table, as our psychologist Karen encouraged each of us, in turn, to speak about our lives and what things had led us there.

One thing that I took from the group was that fellowship was a comfort to many of us.  Some were naturally hesitant, at first, to open up with their stories, and there were occasional tears and gestures of comfort as well.

Nancy was young, I think perhaps around 21.  When it came her turn to speak at each of the meetings, she would pass, usually just wanting to listen or make the occasional remark.  She had attended all but two of our meetings.  On her last day there, the subject up for discussion  was something like “What do you do, or what have you done, in your life, that has brought you joy?”

I could see her fidgeting as the discussion point came around.  With downcast eyes and budding tears, she quietly said “I cannot remember the last time I had any fun.”  She could not sit there any longer, and Karen took her out into the hall and spoke to her for a few minutes.  We resumed, but my heart wasn’t in it, after Nancy had left.  Once the meeting was over, I asked Karen if Nancy would be alright. She thanked me for the concern, but said she could not repeat anything said in confidence to her.

So, for the last two meetings, Nancy was not there.  About a year later, I was at a fast food drive-through getting coffee, and she was the cashier.  She looked different, a little changed somehow.  Face thinner,  eyes open a little too wide,  missing a number of teeth.
She went through the motions of getting my order, and showed no recognition, and I said ” I know you”.  When I told her who I was, it was clear that she remembered then.  She gave a wan smile, and said “Thank you for your order”, so I moved on.

I’ve been in that restaurant many times since then, and have seen her busying herself, dashing around, instructing trainees, and, for all the world, having the appearance of self possession and confidence.  A couple of little things bothered me, though.  Some of her co-workers would secretly roll their eyes as Nancy kept the ship afloat, and would shake their heads and make offhand remarks to each other.  Then there were her eyes, those staring eyes, present but far away.
What kind of a life has she had, and where is her future going?  I don’t know why, but I think about this quite a bit, and try to catch her eye when I’m in there, perhaps just to give a little smile, or get one back.

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

As I write this last note, it’s been another year on or thereabouts. Nancy is still working at the same place that I go for coffee every day. As a matter of fact, she is now a shift manager. I glance her way from time to time, and sometimes she serves me at the cash. She has a shy way of glancing, but I know she remembers me. We just exchange pleasantries, and sometimes I do not see her for a week or two at a time, depending on what shift she works. Funny thing happened the other day. I was out for my evening walk in the twilight, and a black pick up truck was driving up the hill towards me. I saw the driver was a female, and for some reason she was waving at me and smiling. I was embarrassed because I could not make out who it was in the moving vehicle, so I just waved back and continued on. Couple days later, I was in the restaurant again, and this time Nancy gave me a big grin and said hey I am seeing you all over the place these days! Then she averted her eyes once again. I chuckled, and said let me guess, you drive a black pick up truck, right? She gave a smile once again, then turned away and busied her self with the crew.

I’ve just seen a face

It’s so singular and peculiar.
How I feel about you,
women that I have met.
In casual encounters
at a restaurant,
in the market,
pumping gas.
You are instantly forgettable to me,
and I to you.
We share barely a glance,
but in the chance lottery of some dreaming night
I flesh you back into existence, not knowing why.
I awake none the wiser,
but when we meet once more,
the dream is retrieved.
I remember your face, your movement, your quick glance.

And, most singular of all,
I know….
I fancy….
that you had your own purpose, design,
and means
to be that thing so rare.
The architect of a dream.

My Polar opposite

On a crowded woodland train up north,
‘Twas bound for Moosonee.
The coach was swaying back and forth,
And you gave your seat to me.
With upturned face and smiling glance
You rose so gracefully,
And I was happy for the chance
To rest my aching knee.
You stood apart from all the rest
And I felt myself a fool,
Embarrassed, though I did my best,
To hide my thoughts from you.
The man beside me muttered,
Then got up to meet his train.
My heart within me fluttered,
As you sat down once again
With far to go, through evening snow,
We spoke, ’til it was dawn.
Our banter going to and fro,
Our hesitation gone.
A deed I’d done, a wrong to mend,
And so I had gone forth,
Without expecting you, my friend,
A native of the north.
You told me things about your life;
How hardships made you grow.
And I saw that I had seen no strife,
Compared to what you know.
You were so very cheerful,
And made my spirits high.
And now I was so fearful
That our journey’s end was nigh.
You were so young, and I was old,
But felt that I must give
A gift to you, a cross of gold,
As you had long to live.
Now, at the end, we said goodbye.
You hugged me, through the tears.
And so, this Christmas Eve will I
Remember through the years.

 

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…

View original post 236 more words

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.