“Believe,” he admonished, five times again and again, from on high, living on bugs and breadcrumbs, singing some other language to me.
And speaking of crumbs, of fallen-food not given, I knew I’d better believe in something, since such was my fate.
He stopped then -they always do- and took away his scraps and sweetly sung psalms -they always will.
So she, a magical historian of a thing, in sweet song too, recounted, “Disappear. Disappear. Disappear.”
Photo Credit: Tiger R., age 9
Breath like a storm
Birds in the somewhere
Bravely they sing
Watching the thunder
Wondering thoughtfully
Whether they want this
My mild eyes belie my heart
My tempest touch its tell
Make no mistake I am uncaged
My past meekness is felled
Should you succeed to know my mind
Prepare to meet your match
Taste wild you cannot control
Breathe air you cannot catch
How to select weeds
Telling certain ones, “it’s time to out you from this place.”
And whispering to others, “I’ll protect you from their scrutinizing eyes.”
For weeds, we know, live ‘long side the wanted, the beauty.
Yet also, left untended, may aspire to choke.
How
How to select weeds
“What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.”
~Ralph Waldo Emerson
I remember cake not stained by the hurry-hurry dye of “let’s get this done, before too many take note of another year added….”
I’ll choose the sweetness of grateful desire to linger over the celebration of seasons represented there at the table, the love not subtracted.
You represent a grasping to me. A place, not a soul, I turn to when my own souls feels too mortal. I come to you uncertain. Hoping, just this once, you will make me whole. I leave with scraps of self-respect. A lesser-ness of me hanging, dangling from my bones. You know this. You love me, yet you do not turn away.
You’re already leaving
Throwing around avoidable words
Solemnly slung
So as to convince the pair of us
You’re already packed
Holding back an arsenal of loving
Earnestly proclaimed
But why ever for, as we each see
You’re already gone
I need to move
from Earth
I need to make space
as if I were a creator
or creative, of some sort
I need to mark
from Intention
I need to mean something
as if they’d someday speak
Or marvel, of the firmament
This pre-war, post-war frame
Quaint summer garden
Exposed brick and beam
Uneven maple plank throughout
All hard as nails, I promise
Will never cry so hard as I
On this kitchen floor
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