It happened one day, when I discover humility: from the beginning, to its beginning, when I was unable to peel an orange, bake bread— or, crack an egg… before I made my breakfast, drank my coffee and settled for cold cereal.
I still get up for one more day’s length —from my inviting bed, and make my many visits to my children and grandchildren; catching up with things I never heard, though has been repeated several times. Any way, I usually, on my way out, steal from large pottery bowls, an apple or an orange, sometimes cashews left on the counter tucked in-between in a smaller bowl.
Waving a right handed good-bye and a thankful smile, I drive through Center Sandwich village, before sunset and well before the June’s moon will rise.
I get home, make a late supper, take in another amazing day; then I go to bed smiling with my beads in grateful prayer.
Presence is not known
Until it reveals itself
In true existence
The greatest movie in the evening, I go and watch, when I become bored with myself and have no desire to make a meal or take a walk or even to pop popcorn and turn on the TV —I look out my window.
I watch the leaves dancing on branches making songs from the wind; so I rise and go outside and join in on the chorus as a movie extra, in the production of the “H.M.S. Pinafore”.
Mystics from the past
carry you through the seasons
—you met once before.
On Monday morning, he opened his door, ole slim Lewis just raised his price, at the corner store. Raisin’ the price of flour from 5 cents to 15 cents a pound, no less no more.
I can still hear mama sayin’, “I’d just as soon pick a handful of dandelions and trade them evenly for a pound of pork rinds than give him —the extra dime”.
without honey glazed biscuits,
fried in pork fat rinds.
He feels the strength of her independence,
when she stepped forward —naked with strangers in a local stream;
far from her parents and her lover sitting, with tee-shirt
and dry swimming trunks, life guard symbol on his seam. He is wondering
whether to sit, or, to hold up her abandoned towel —to stand
up, to greet her, with a smile and without giving her any shit, holding out
both his hands.
Yo’ Bro’ wass’ happinin’?
Looks like love has seen a ghost,
Groovin’ and strollin’. 😊
Memorial Day 2018
The threat of death whether on the street, or, worse yet,
being an actor in the theater of war. Death, is ever-present
in all of them; from desk, teaching, jungle, or sand.
Whether killed, captured, or not;
is this fear, whether dismissed in discipline, forgot.
It is because of them, under constant threat,
you can sleep tight, and won’t let the bed bugs bite.
R.I.P …mon père, mes oncles pendant la deuxième guerre mondiale et mon frère cadet, le Vietnam.
circling, melting at her knees in a chilling rise.
There he was! gone!* without a bubble or a scream
in ‘Sticky Tongue’s pond on a hot summer’s eve.
PS: Horace rolled up his window as running Lulu joined him –they locked all the car doors and hit the floor. As for Larry? His parents are still lookin’ fer’.
Yup! Cross my heart and hope to die .I don’t swim there, but I fish there; catching on a hot summer day, a wiggly reflection on the surface of the water, of sticky tongue’s lair.
This is for those of you who sit at the end of a movie and listen to the music reading the credits:
I received this glittering notebook as a gift from a wonderful writer friend Kelli T.–teaching as Adjunct faculty (English of course) at Plymouth State University NH—now living the glamorous life 😊 in Minneapolis. A great writer whom I have accepted gracious encouragement from.
The notebook has been kicking around for a while, buried among many journals. Some leather-bound, cloth bound, some on paper bags and some on any colored napkins.
PoPo, my 10 yr. old grandson who has such an imaginary virtual reality and somehow still maintains human sensitivity, along with his older brother Gav, were staying with me for the day. Which I enjoy often.
Trying to figure out how to get their creative attention, my attention was drawn to this glittering notebook. I reached over, sparkling as ever, opened it and wrote the first draft.
I made them French toast and as they were eating it (plenty of butter and syrup), I read them this draft. When I finished they chuckled, continuing to eat, PoPo asked me to lock the door.