After Sleeping

Something lurks
close enough
that the uneven rhythm
of its ragged breath
awakens her
staring into
the darkened shadows
beside the worn out armchair
there is a shift
its presence made known
by a faint rustle
an oily odor
fills nostrils
she tries to hide
in her sleeping self
but he knows
she has stopped
breathing

Music Man

My earliest memories of you
are filled with song
a tinkling of notes
and a soft dry voice

Always loving words
from your lips
to my young ears
starving for their nourishing
warmth

Your soft honey love
will stay with me
even as the chimes
ring the last note

I know the lyrics
they are mine now
the lingering melody
stays in the air

I may raise my lips
and wail this night
but tomorrow
I will lift my voice
with the song
you gave to me

ice cold November waters

How can I drown
when I know how to swim
when I wear my life vest despite
it's lack of fashionable
integrity
paralyzing integrity
stops me from climbing to the roof
and screaming invectives
from tearing up the roofing with
bare hands and
throwing down the
shingles on
pedestrians

Suffering

The unease of not knowing what will happen next
The discomfort of immobility
of limbs tight and weak
trapped beneath cotton sheets.
Remembering what came before
Dancing and twirling on that smooth floor before losing
Toes and tibia to awaiting microbes.

Immune to medical breakthroughs
Knowing that next
an unknown hand
wraps around and holds on to
neck and ribs...

and works it’s fingernails into the cracks
popping air sacs
once fresh with moonlit air
now wilted with the stale breath
Of an ending
Unbidden,
Unprepared
Unbelievable
And unavoidable

suffering

Temporal Break

Speaking of the end of the world.

2012



It strikes me that though an uneven number, that date is too unremarkable to hold the truth. It seems that it should have been a nice round number like 2000 or even something more impressive like 2500 that does us all in, but 2012, no it doesn't work for me. It only adds up to 5. There are five of us living here in my house. Hmmmm, what does that mean?



Is the end of the world meant to be a relative terminology for the end of our world? For something so catastrophic that the end of the world is the way we feel. Will one of us be removed...or all of us? Yikes. I cannot even write the thoughts that are so specific as to suggest the demise of my family and immediate and intimate loved ones, yet I seem to have no problem pondering the end of everyone's world and can flippantly listen to talk of Nostradamus and apocalyptic dramas that seem to be emerging in the world political climate as well as the actual climate.



Should I be afraid of the end of the world? In my personal experience, the end of something inevitably means the beginning of something else, even if it is the beginning of a time of nothingness or absence; it is still a beginning. A beginning means newness and newness is scary.



The beginning of the world. The rebirth of the earth, how can I hasten its arrival?

Will it come in like the birth of a child with pain and suffering and blood and gore? It may be that the rebirth happens on a daily basis, and we have simply to stop and take note to appreciate the birth of a new dawn, new dreams and new fears.



Though some of the old fears persist, new inadequacies and dangers poke their head above the water each time a new day begins.



A wise young man once told me that if we just knew for sure what the purpose of our lives was, we would have a peaceful world with no fear of war and strife and no worry about the mystical and spiritual realities that seem to surround us, yet often elude us. If we only knew. What if we do know, but we don't want to accept that we are here to be here? That we exist to procreate and every other pursuit is driven by our own fears of the end of it all. Is that enough? What purpose would be enough to truly erase our fears and allow us to live and breathe and pursue our goals without jealousy, hatred or power struggles.

Baby Turtle

Crossing my path
his little flippers were moving a mile a minute
and he barely cleared any space

I hesitated, then chose
chose to help him...
The sand he had been buried in still clung to his shell
and he felt like paper in my hand.

Drawing into his shell
he froze upon my palm
feeling so cool.

I nestled him in the grass beside the pond
Surely his intended destination
then I began to fret
was he supposed to grow stronger from the journey?
Did i rob him of his opportunity to overcome and persevere?
Would he be able to handle life
in the deep water?

Graceful Octopus

Unbelievably, I have done it again. It is never intentional, yet always predictable. The goal was to finish. The food cooked and waiting in pots under lids for the hour of hunger, just like my mother-in- law used to do it. The house spotless, swept floor, clean clothes, happy children grinning and hugging, enjoying one another. I had plans to sit under the tree in his hammock warming it up. Letting it sway in the wind, lost in a book. Lost in a story that would be deep and moving and fast-paced and unpredictable, but it's been 12 hours since I woke up, and I haven't gotten there yet. The sky has darkened and the temperature has dropped and I am ignoring the grumbling children and farting dog to write this piece of ...art.

I drank a big mug of coffee too,this late in the day. To falsely energize me into actually cleaning the mess and organizing to perfection, so that the next day, nothing will need to be done. Nothing. Just maintenance and I will be able to rest without a cloud of anything above my head. After fusing two guinea pig cages into one and washing the sheets and cooking a meal I've yet to clean up, I wonder if I'll be able to find a screwdriver to put together my new $9.99 bookshelf. This shelf will heal all of the disarray that exists in my life. I just know it. After all if everything has a place and everything is in its place, there will be room for my true self. I usually wrap it up and hold it all in, but once I make the space, my great big self is enormous and expands with dancing tentacles to every corner. I am an octopus...with grace.

As I peeled the potatoes hours ago, I thought I was almost there. Then, oops, I must have had my eyes open, but somehow I couldn't differentiate between potato and fingertip. Now even as I type this through my bandaid I feel the throbbing of my failure. I cannot make it look easy, even when it is easy. I cannot make it seem simple, though it must be simple. I will give up for another day, and start again where I left off. It will feel as if there is more undone and I am starting back three steps. I'll reread this and I will know that really, I've already peeled the potatoes on Wednesday, so I can cross that cumbersome task off my list. I will hug the kids and tell them I love them. Then I can cross that off too. Sleep will come eventually. I will be alone inside myself. My list forgotten. I will dream of the ocean.