Taking Stock
I can’t remember
was this the afternoon the
sun obscured my view?
was this the time I
needed to shade my eyes
with the flat of my hand?
some evenings I brace
myself for sol’s onslaught;
moving to another chair
would be too simple
instead, I squint and grumble
while sipping Merlot.
but I’m almost certain
that clouds obstructed
the rays yesterday,
and left me in peace
for once.
she saw him stopped at a red light
dull green army jacket over a
white t-shirt with AC/DC emblazoned
boldly across his thin chest.
she can only imagine the list of
tour dates on the back.
this isn’t her boy
she knows that,
but the glimpse is enough to bring
a smile to her eyes and
the taste of salt on her lips
memory’s gentle nudge.
better, she knows, to have
spent this life with another
carry on Angus
rock on Bon
This poem was inspired by photographer/graphic designer, Julie Powell, whose blog I follow on WordPress. Check out her work and insights at https://juliepowell2014.wordpress.com/
Some things don’t need fixing
they’re fine just the way they are,
like mornings in the mountains
And evenings by the fire.
We don’t get perfect lives,
or even perfect days,
but moments of perfection
to savor along the way.
The trick is to recognize
these moments when they come:
a baby’s smile, a lover’s touch,
and acknowledge their existence.
To chase perfection is to lose it,
hold on too tightly and it’s gone
just smile to yourself in acceptance
and tuck the memory away in your heart.
She sat on the tailgate
of an old green Ford,
her narrow denim clad hips
wedged between an Igloo cooler
and a box of faded red rags.
Scuffed boots swinging.
The whoop whoop of a siren
heralded the coming display
of a starched color guard,
eliciting a respectful salute,
grandparents demonstrating
flag etiquette for the young.
Then came beauty queens smiling,
perching precariously on the
pinnacle of a tissue paper
decorated semi-trailer in gowns
of taffeta, satin, and lace.
Tiaras glittering in the sun.
She waved at those high school
princesses, pulling funny
faces to make them laugh.
That was her talent, after all.
Hardly anyone took her
seriously as the parade passed.
Marching bands from rival
schools vied for favor
as the sun heated the summer
Texas day; twirlers in spangled
shorts tossing batons inspired
ooohs and ahhs from the crowd.
Reaching inside the battered
Igloo, she dug deep, found an
icy cold Schlitz and disguised
it with a red rag. The Baptists
sitting at the curb on either
side would cluck if they knew.
A string of politicians came next,
esconced in the finest vehicles
the local car dealers could offer;
bright smiles plastered on their
faces as their well-coifed wives
wilted in the climbing heat.
Following close behind came tykes
wobbling on bikes, spokes decorated,
festooned with ribbons and crepe
paper and baskets overflowing
with flags or stuffed animals. She
called out each name as they passed.
Finishing her beer, she craned her
neck to see tractors and combines in
John Deere green compete with those of
International Harvester red in a show of
the latest in agricultural technology.
The parade’s low point, she thought.
At last she heard the clip clopping of
hooves on the WPA bricked street and the
bright clanging of a bell, as the old cowpoke,
Zeke, sang out. Smiling she popped the top
on another Schlitz, hopped down from the
rusty tailgate, and joined the parade.
What’s the rush?
Why the urgency?
Just a few years
Ago you were 12,
Riding a bicycle
Pigtails flying
Elbows scraped.
Take a moment to
Be a young woman
Out exploring in
This world alone.
Don’t be hurried
To plunge headlong
Into domesticity.
Your choices won’t
Be easy, my friend
Perhaps they aren’t
Meant to be clear,
But you’ll make it.
You’re strong and
weird and wonderful.
Yesterday I caught myself thinking about my grandchildren and how quickly they’re growing. The oldest two are on the verge of becoming teenagers. I became a little weak in the knees thinking that when I was that age, unbeknownst to me, I was a mere six years away from settling into marriage with Studly.
Six years was the distance between goofy slumber parties with my friends and keeping house for a husband.
My choices weren’t
Clear back then,
Perhaps they never
Were meant to be.
I do love my life,
Even while I wonder
What might’ve been.
walked into the bedroom
stopped beside the dresser
something nagged inside my head
what was it i was there for?
left the room, went down the hall
thinking all the way
whatever might i have needed
in the middle of the day?
glasses i had on my nose
sandals on my feet
ipod was in my left hand
cranking a steady beat.
passed the mirror in the hall
oh, now my lapse was clear!
i’m naked as a jaybird
and should cover my derrierre.
Our youngest grandchild, Harper, celebrates her third birthday today. That seems impossible. Only yesterday she was a tiny, helpless infant. Nowadays, she’s a feisty little handful who talks to me on FaceTime for as long as she can make herself sit still. Then it’s “I’m all done with Nana!” and off she goes to sing “Uptown Funk” or “Let it Go.”
I wrote this poem for Harper when she was upset about not getting to attend school with her older siblings.
D Wants to Ride
The big yellow bus came to D’s house today.
Garrett got on the big yellow bus.
McKayla got on the big yellow bus.
D could not get on the big yellow bus.
“You must be three, and you are only two,” said Garrett.
“You are way too little,” said McKayla.
“I am big,” said D.
“I can count,
I can sing,
I can climb,
I can swing.”
“Just one more year,” said Garrett.
“You will be a big girl next year,” said McKayla.
“But I AM a big girl!” Insisted D.
“I can play,
I can dance,
I can run
Really fast!”
“D,” said Garrett, “Be our baby for awhile.”
“D,” said McKayla, “Stay little for awhile.”
D thought and thought. “OK,” she said.
“I will be your baby for one more year.
I will still count and sing, climb and swing.
I will still play and dance and run very fast.
But next year I will get on the big yellow bus!”
“Bye, D,” said Garrett.
“Bye, D,” said McKayla.
“Bye big yellow bus!” said D. “I’ll see you next year.”
Daily prompt: Smell you later. Tell us about a smell that transports you.
Mama made a treat
when I was a child of four
I remember still.
to this very day
the delicacy prepared
makes my mouth water.
memories flood in
cinnamon sugar on toast;
a slice of heaven.
cinnamon and mom
are all mixed up in my head;
a sweet memory.
In the last trimesters of my two pregnancies my mind and body went into high states of anticipation. Physically I was full of child, round and healthy, a walking, talking, glowing clichè. Who cared that we were young and totally unprepared? My body was saying, “Let’s do this!”
Mentally I went into the hormone zone. At night I dreamt of having twins or triplets, and literally juggling them (even though I can barely handle more than one bag in real life without dropping it) or forgetting they existed at all until learning they were grown without having ever known me. Gotta love those pregnancy hormones.
Recently I began noticing a parallel between my late term pregnancy time and my current existence. You see every night before I closed my eyes to sleep back then I’d think, “What if this is the night I go into labor?”
Now, as I near sixty, I sometimes wonder at bedtime, “What if this is the night I die?” It’s not as morbid as it sounds. I’m a healthy woman. I sleep well and eat a reasonably nutritious diet. After my bout with early stage breast cancer I am religious about having regular mammograms and other preventative medical exams.
But it’s as if I’ve become pregnant with death.
I’m past those years of thinking I am invincible. I’ve lost friends who seemed full of life and possibility. I was with both of my parents as they died, and I was struck by just how effortless the final step was. They’d both suffered the indignities of long, painful illnesses, but when death finally came for them there was a release and a relief.
So sometimes at night the anticipatory thought comes to me. “What if this is it? What if this is the night I die?”
I say my prayers as always, for forgiveness, for the health and well-being of my family, for an end to wars, for any friends who’ve requested prayers, and I always end with a thank you. Because if I’m to go I want gratitude to be my final thought.
In the end I guess we are all “pregnant with death” and life is too precious to spend even a moment on dramas that separate families and friends. So forgive. And then forgive again.
Peace, people
If I leave tonight
my spirit will stay with you
I’ll love you always.
a photo of you
sits next to a red stapler
on top of my desk.
every morning
i touch my lips to your lips
captured under glass.
it’s a cold, spare kiss
no warmth exchanged in the act;
only memories.
Praying for Eyebrowz 