Will you enter this long sleep with clear conscience, exalted by your good works, camouflaged by your religion?
If you expect pointed fingers to catch you out, they won’t be mine. I’ve hurt my share of people, filled my own bucket with
The dregs of guilt and regret. If anything I will be the one to offer reconciliation, but without the artifice of narrow beliefs.
Think now on those you’ve wronged, those whose affections you’ve betrayed, while anyone without sin casts the first stones.
Will we take our guns to church now?
Jesus take the wheel, but leave me my pistol
Dylan Roof opened fire in a South Carolina prayer meeting
Now more dead occupy the pews in Texas
Just wondering which firearm goes best with Psalms.
Yea, tho I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil,
For I am armed with a semi-automatic weapon.
No doubt lawmakers will offer meaningless thoughts and prayers
Their mantra sounding weaker by the hour
Who will answer for these deaths?
Who will offer a solution?
Throw a sash around my neck,
I’ll parade across the stage
As the crowd cheers frantically
I’ll smile brilliantly and wave
My speech will thank the people
Who’ve made me who I am today
All the ones within my care
Who’ve caused my hair to gray
I know I’m not the fun one
Keeping order is my chore
The Queen of Worry ‘til my death
And then I’ll worry no more
Once I was the new dress, swirls of dark blue on pure white cotton, crisp and suited for summer soirées.
The favorite, I found delight in being washed by hand and then pinned to the clothesline to dry under the warm sun.
I drew compliments from strangers and friends, alike, and I relaxed in the pleasure of being worn, washed, and dried,
Until the day my colors faded and the white no longer looked sharp. I was assessed and found wanting before being
Packed away and relegated to a cardboard box marked for donation. My hopes now lie in resurrection from a thrift bin.
I understand the infield fly rule, though I doubt my knowledge will ever come into play at a cocktail hour or any other
Social event. Hey, I’d say, Did you know that if there are fewer than two outs, and runners on first and second, or first,
Second, and third, and a fly ball is hit that can easily be fielded by any member of the infield, the batter is out even
If the ball is not caught? What kind of nonsense is that? My partner in conversation will ask. Exactly, I’ll say!
Furthermore, runners advance at their own risk! With age I’ve come to realize that the rule protects the team on offense,
Even though it results in one out. What genius devised the infield fly rule? Surely he deserves a statue or a drink in his honor.
Try as I might I cannot figure a way to make this rule pertinent to my life, as I swing and miss one more time.
The things she recalled
His eyes, kind smile, gentle touch,
But never his voice
With scant reminder
She remembered his cologne
Subtle sandalwood
She’d give anything
To hear him speak one more time
Though words might wound her
I grew up in a Fina gas station owned by my granddaddy. My days smelled of petroleum and cigars,
No wonder I’m a little on edge all of my days. When the world is combustible with the errant flick of an ash,
Everything becomes precious to a precocious five year old. Grandaddy kept candy and red fuses in a glass counter display.
I had the run of the place, but was cautioned about dashing about and around the old pumps, lest someone
Run me over. Pretty heady stuff for a little girl who only wanted to ask, “Premium or Ethyl?” as she washed grimy windshields.
My heart is all tied up in that place. Bound by diligence and the smell of Grandaddy’s Old Spice. The strength of his hugs.
The cat in question,
Snuggling, purring on my lap,
She finds her warm place
Never questions life,
Not a care in her safe world
Relaxed, yet still poised
The cat in question
A lady of advanced age
My boon companion
She still remembers
Walking through shame and cold fear
Whoee, doll, come here
Should she not react,
Or turn, and face the whistlers
Walk a bit faster
That stretch of hallway
Where sly boys formed a gauntlet
Eager eyes taunted
Darts in the Dark
My time is now spent throwing darts into the dark, hoping that one sticks and makes its mark in the cork.
My aim must be off, maybe, or the target has been moved. I only know that my darts miss their marks
And clatter harmlessly onto the concrete where they’ll remain until the lights are restored. I’m a fool, but not
Inclined to go searching for sharp metal objects in this room, this tomb, where the light is forbidden and my feet bare.
Praying for Eyebrowz 