Behind the Green Door

Someone referenced old wooden doors yesterday and brought this old post to mind. It’s not great poetry, but I love the photo I took of this door in La Antigua de Guatemala.

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2015/04/27/door/

People

There’s an 80-something woman I know, dyes her hair magenta, wears Chanel No. 5 and purple blouses

My banker is a young, Black man with perfect teeth, and the soul of a poet. He performs at open mic nights

I’ve heard of a child who isn’t. Born on the wrong side of an imaginary line, she huddles with others in a cage

The woman next to me in the grocery store marks her territory with an angry stance and sad, old eyes

Death claims a friend, robbing all who loved her of her sweet spirit. She comes around in my dreams

Me? I’m a watcher, hoisting a glass to those who’ve touched my life, for better and sometimes for worse

Who are you? Add a verse.

Peace, people.

Found the photo of the sculpture on Pinterest.

Wizards Brewing

There’s a storm brewing

Winds raging, lightning strikes near

Thunder claps along

Wizards watch with glee

From the safety of their lairs

Raining down vengeance

And the wildness flows

From dark clouds filled with anger

Take that, you heathens

I know, I know! I write a lot of these silly poems about storms, but I haven’t gotten it just right yet, so I’ll keep on trying. The storms out here at Doright Manor are epic. Words just fall short of describing their majesty.

Peace, people!

Tea Leaves

She seeks the future

In the tea leaves’ swirled remains

Such intriguing shapes

Tasseomancy

From the handle, then clockwise

Reading ’round the cup

What fate awaits her?

Which symbols reveal the tale?

She hovers and yearns

For some reason yesterday morning I responded to a comment on my blog with the phrase “reading tea leaves.” The phrase stuck in my head and formed itself into the poem above.

I’ve never had a tea leaf reading done; although, many years ago I had my palm read. At the time Studly Doright and I lived in Kansas, and the palm reader told me I’d soon be moving to Florida, and that I’d meet my soul mate there. I just laughed at the time, but within the year Studly accepted a transfer to Melbourne, FL. Of course, I already had my soul mate, so I suppose her reading came true, since I meet him at the door almost every night. 😉

Peace, people.

Bees’ Knees

Of knees, I have two

Symmetrically, left and right

Please, don’t fail me now

My body ages

A kink here, another there

Knees are first to go

So I limp and gimp

Groaning from hither to yon

Do bees’ knees suffer?

So I tweaked my left knee somehow on Saturday, and I’ve been hobbling around feeling sorry for myself. I’m sure it just needs a bit of rest. Maybe I should elevate it and drink wine.

Houses With Books

A house without books

Is a heartless edifice

No stories, no soul

Build for me a shack

Every wall covered with shelves

Each shelf filled with books

No ivied mansion

With fixtures of finest gold

Could be more desired

I’ve been going to estate sales again. No real treasures this week, but I realized as I walked through houses, marveling at the objets d’art, some beautiful, some bizarre, that people have collected, and browsing through these museums of their lives, that I spend far less time in a house where there are no books. I suppose that makes me a bit judgmental, but a house with no books seems incomplete.

This is fairly hypocritical of me. Ninety percent of the books I buy now are for my e-reader. And I know a good many well read people who seldom buy a book, instead borrowing from libraries. I do still purchase print books, though, and I have a good many from which to choose. Still, when I die, and you visit an estate sale to pore over my worldly goods, look for my Kindle. There are thousands of books on there.

Peace, people!

The Leaning Tree

Winds have bowed him awkwardly,

Casting him askew to the others.

Maybe, though, he’s just leavesdropping,

Inserting himself into the discussion between

The sweet magnolia and the mighty oak

Across the way, shaking boughs and

Whispering poetry, listening for the owl.

Maybe he’s yearning for the lake,

Hoping for a cool breeze and a sip of water,

Or perhaps, like you, he’s just weary and

Seeks the loving arms of a companion.

Who am I to judge this leaning tree?

I’ve leaned too, in my day, and

Will again in the days to come.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow

I will take the time to linger by the lake,

To touch my toe tips to its cool surface and watch the flash of fish

Slip beneath the weeds.

Tomorrow I will pluck a daisy, counting off the petals,

Each one a vindication or a soft rejection, who needs that kind of

Fickle love anyway?

Tomorrow I will bake the bread, rolling and kneading and

Watching it rise, the smell of warm yeasty goodness almost making me

Swoon with giddiness.

Tomorrow I will honor the friends whose days were cut short,

I’ll wear patchouli on my wrists and dress in a gypsy skirt, maybe with bells

Announcing my arrival.

Tomorrow

Now This Storm

All the night things were fooled by the glowering skies. In the hushed anticipation,

Frogs began their nightly chorus as crickets laid down a steady beat, echoing into

this false dusk, punctuated suddenly by stabs of frantic lightning, bombarded by the

rolling of a timpani, mallets on skin, presaging the arrival of a downpour, the

outpouring, the deluge. We hunker down, my cats and I, after a sharp crackle and

concussive reverberation. Too close for comfort. The lake creatures have gone mute,

given up on their futile choruses, now that the storm has come.

We had a lightning strike a couple of minutes ago that might have topped anything I’ve ever experienced. It was close, the thunder immediate, and my heart is racing. Wish I’d still had the camera going, but the audio would have needed censoring.

See that bare spot on my lawn? That’s still fallout from last year’s Hurricane Michael. And we’ve got a potential hurricane heading this way as I write this. I’m not ready for another storm season.

Peace, people.

I’m Really Pissed Off at Death

I’ve railed at the heavens,

Cursed and cried,

Tried to rip out that cold, grey stone that’s lodged itself between my fourth and fifth ribs.

When confronted, Death shrugged and smiled a sad smile,

Like, “What did you expect? You know I’m at the end of every rainbow, the finale to every concert, the resolution of every song.”

So I hauled off and punched him. Right in his smug face.

He acted as if it hurt him more than he’d hurt me.

Part of me appreciated that, but I’m still pissed.

And so very sad.

In the past week I’ve lost three friends–two from my childhood and one I’ve known only a precious few years. Death can go suck eggs. This rant is for Mike, McArthur, and Julie.