Category Archives: Love
I shall not seek Thee —in a stiff collar of white or colorless turbine. Or, robes of wool…covering skin dark or light over bones disguised in cloaks of Yellow, Orange, Brown, and lest not we forget Cremora White!
—You have no need to convince me of the fig leaf on my soul! I have acknowledged its presence. I will find its place in the empty void.
I shall find You —by going forward and leaving me alone.
In valley below
winter thaws upcoming spring
On Holderness Road
Above urgent toes, pushing small glazed pinecones,
a late December wind was bristling with snow spitting
at heels in a steady pace crunching frozen pine needles.
Owls hoot! Shadows dart! Dead limbs snap!
Moonlight guides them to a glowing rising bend.
Boot soles slide on unseen ice —but, balance is regained.
The remaining sun begins to fade from dusk.
Curling nesting squirrels brightly tick eventide;
finding themselves short of distant village lights.
Snow, now steadily blowing in a whiteout slant
mellowed the glow from the windows
of the houses, steady burning lamps.
The wind tore through their over-coats
threads fluttered and shredded behind them
as they hastened to saved empty seats.
In scented moonlight, they caught the smoke
that waffled thru stone chimneys
—they were welcomed arrivals in houses of warmth;
they were seated in the glow at table side,
where they lit the center white candle —awaiting Christmastide,
along with the joyful hearts of expectant families.
The clear Vodka bottle stood full, unopened on the top of the refrigerator. It has been there for hours, turning into days, weeks, and months. Every time I opened the refrigerator door— I would looked at it, and sing “Choices.” (Written by Billy Yates and Mike Curtis made popular by George Jones), and I would go about my routine day. But, eventually— one evening I took the bottle down and placed it on the counter. I found a clean mason jar and placed a few cubes of ice into it—poured from the bottle two mason jar fingers—staring out the kitchen window, I saw the full moon looking like a lost silver dollar—I raised my glass.
Let loving hearts ache
Release all blame and accept
The seedlings of trust
In case your curious:
Sundown was sinking from a ridge on Holderness road
Inviting me, or so I thought, to turn off –my one light on.
(The one I had turned on, when darkness was creeping along).
I could see as I stared out from my large window—
the only one in my cave— a dimming invitation
for a quick evenings celebration; honoring a season’s resignation.
I wanted to meet her –to greet her,
Before the winter moon rose to extinguish
her completed season’s accomplishments.
I left the house in a goose down vest,
donning my formal Pendleton— wide brim’s best.
Without a thought, I walked many steps
going about my way.
Until I opened my eyes
on an illuminated path of autumn amber pine needles
glowing from the rising moon and sunlight’s sunset.
They met and greeted me with giggles and mutual song.
I caught their transition between darkness and dawn.
They kissed each other… as the moon
asked me— to go inside
and turn the light, back on.
Photo by RKG… Holdernes Rd. Center Sandwich NH
I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat. I haven’t been to one of those since I was single. Now, older as things get ignored, I wait until I run out of socks and underwear. Oh, and tee shirts they’re always along side two or three more.
Two pillow cases in and only one with all folded, coming out. Sometimes, it’s both being carried out when I take the sheets, towels, a couple of dress shirts, and a few blue jeans, at the heel with frayed threads falling out. But today its tee shirts, socks, and underwear; one pillow case, the other carried inside out.
I have been in my robe all week, tee shirts and underwear underneath. Yesterday I was remembering a place with a washer and a dryer. Where it was my turn to do the laundry, a turn I would keep. I would turn on a blaring rock and roll radio station, sorting whites from colors. Sometimes I would inject a little shuffle and dance as I measured softener and twenty-mule team borax, half a cup or more singing out loud almost in a holler.
From gentle to hard-core, as the cycles went. Washing, drying, and folding. Picking up the kitchen in-between the squashing and swirling I would sweep the floor. With things sorted from white, colors and who knows what. I did two maybe even three loads. But, ah, back to my rented room in its ultimate bore.
On my inherited mother’s nicked kitchen table, on a lace doily gathering dust, sits a blue antique bottle and this summer’s dried flowers. I laid my car keys and emptied my pockets making them lighter of contents, putting them on her table.
Two straight-backed chairs next to yesterdays mail, the morning sun struck the table, breaking through the windows hazed of last night’s cigarette smoke, I heard a voice from my past, as my mother spoke, telling me to at least, “keep yourself clean, don’t live precariously, do your laundry, every week, listen to me, please!”
I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat. I haven’t been to one of those since I was single or with my mother as a child; since my divorce.
Photo by RKG