Who am I to question the way a door is opened?
Push. Pull. Lift latch. Turn knob. “Abracadabra”
So what if I choose incorrectly at least half of the time?
Enter. Exit. Round and round.
When last we talked I caught a glimmer of remorse. Maybe you would choose a different door this time, or maybe find a new way to open it.
We were friends once. Invisible doors were slammed. I lost a figurative finger.
All I’m saying, is I’ll help you open that door again. We can lean against it together.
I spliced the scenes together
The early days of flickering frames in shades of black and white,
Three channels and Walter Cronkite’s signature sign-off, “And that’s the way it is.”
We begged for a color tv, if only for the Rose Bowl parade broadcast, but
I’d outgrown the delight of floats bedecked with hundreds of thousands of flowers by the time
The old RCA was replaced by a bigger, shinier new Zenith. Bonanza in color and Little Joe in
My dreams. Yeehaw.
(I owe the idea for this one, in part, to my friend LA at Waking Up on the Wrong Side of 50.:
I want to be happier than I was yesterday, but not quite as happy as I’ll be tomorrow
Like that old saying I heard somewhere when I was much younger and had better retention
Only, it had more to do with love than happiness, and while the two are closely related
They can be mutually exclusive. I’ve been happy without being in love and in love without being happy
Damn. Is that as deep as I think it is, or is that just the Cabernet Sauvignon talking?
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.
Found the photo of the sculpture on Pinterest.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Still one of my favorite blog posts. I wrote it my first year as a blogger, and I love it because it paints me as I wish I’d been in high school–the cool chick who did her own thing during the big parade. Instead, I was a band geek afraid to rebel. Oh, to have a few do overs.
The leading edge would
Have us jumping at each flash
Of tensile lightning
Flinching at thunder
Cowering ‘neath the covers
Yearning for a pause
Rumbles grow distant
Downpour tapers to sprinkles
This storm fades away
(Found all the photos on Pinterest)
I’m always fascinated by the flow and rhythm of a storm–The light and sound parade that precedes the rainfall, the tapering off of rain followed by an encore of the opening chorus. I get chills when I get to be a witness to the greatest concert on earth.
During an intermission of the storm I’m watching a small turtle make its way across my yard.
Looks like he/she has an appointment.