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 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
Slipping beneath the weeds.
Tomorrow I will pluck a daisy and count 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.
Do not marry an impatient man
Consider all the ways he’ll make your life hell
Driving you to distraction
Making you forget how to remember
Gaslighting in double time
Afraid to take a breath
Or a break
Or a good cry
Kiss him, if you must,
But let someone else take his last name.
I embraced the rain
From the safety of my den
Felt the thunder shake the house
Watched the lightning scorch the sky
Saw saplings swaying
To the rhythm of the storm
Such a dance within the forest
A rhumba in the jungle, if you please
Sketch a girl in black and white,
Pigtails flying, slapping against a plaid shirtwaist
Skinny sun browned legs skip-hopping to a rhythmic chant
Cinderella, dressed in yellow,
Went upstairs to kiss a fellow.
Made a mistake and kissed a snake,
How many doctors did it take?
Rope twirls ’round, up, then down, over and over again.
All in the wrist, she thinks as she counts, “One, two…twenty…ninety,” and beyond.
So many doctors! She can jump all day, or at least until recess ends.
Hovering on the
Edge of nothingness
Visions quiver ‘neath closed lids
In the fourth state
No kingdoms conquered
No triumphs over death’s grip
Nary a prince kissed
At the very least
Shouldn’t she be the hero,
Star in her own dreams?
Artist Kinga Britschgi