Wow, so it’s been 3 months since my last entry. I don’t know, but lately time seems to have been passing in triple time. Since my last entry I’ve participated in NaPoWriMo for the 4th year in a row at PFFA, and below are the 30 poems I wrote in April. It was lots of fun – hard!, but lots of fun, and it was really a wonderful treat to read some of my fave poets there again. I still have to read a lot of threads that I missed during April – there were just too many to keep up with. What I generally do is keep up with a handful of threads, and then do the catch up thing. This year there were so many good poems written – I think the quality of writing has gone up each year I’ve participated. At the bottom of my commentary, I’ve cut and pasted my NaPo poems for your reading pleasure (or disgust, heh, whatever) .
The first week of May found me off to Hampton, VA to attend the Art & Soul Art Retreat for 5 days of nothing but learning new ways to make art. It was a total blast, and I can’t wait to go again next year. I had originally planned to stay in VA for 2 weeks and do some house hunting, but I had to cut the trip short because of Baby getting sick - more on that later. I took classes with Diana Trout (acrylic glazes and mixed media), Albie Smith (Bound Art – we made a book from plain 140 lb watercolor paper), Kathy Wasilewski (Tin Souls – an angel assemblage mounted on an oval plaque) and Michael deMeng (Creative OUtlets = another assemblage class where I made an awesome looking piece of art from an ordinary electrical outlet.) Here are the pictures of my efforts – I love every piece I made. I had a ton of fun making these, and I learned alot of new techniques.
these are from the acrylic glazes & mixed media class
here is the book I made from plain, white 140-lb watercolor paper
this is my Tin Soul – the box opens to reveal more art (and yes, that’s a picture of me sitting on my mom’s lap – I was all of 9 months old – and you can’t see it, but there are photos of my dad and my brother in the trinkets hanging from the angel’s wings.) I had alot of fun in this class – and I learned how to work with metal – how to cut and pound domes into it, how to glue it, and how to rust it.
underneath all this is an electrical outlet – and yes, that’s an old sparkplug! This was such an amazing class – we learned to think about assemblage in terms of solving 2 problems – structure, and what fits with what. I also got a great paint mixing 101 lesson, and learned how to use a drill and a dremel. THis was a way cool class with a way cooler teacher!
So, now for the bad news. Baby, my nanday conure, has a large tumor growing in his lower body, near his reproductive system and kidneys. It’s a little larger than a quarter. I don’t know how fast it’s growing, or what type of tumor it is, but eventually it will kill him. I decided not to chance surgery – the odds are not good that Baby would survive. So my heart is breaking again. It’s been about 2 months since he was diagnosed, and so far he’s been his normal, rambunctious self. His vet has had me put him on an all orgainc diet, and told me what to look for so I’ll know when it’s time to send him to birdie heaven. And each day is a gift now, because he can go at any time. THis is why I cut my vacation short – the retreat was one thing – it was all paid for and non-refundable – but to be sitting in the sun miles away wondering about how Baby was doing the rest of the time, with my heart at home with him and not with me, it just didn’t seem like the time to take that kind of vacation. I would be worrying every minute about him, so I came home early and spent a few days nnot doing much but playing with him when I got back. It’s weird, but he acts so normal and seems so strong yet – it’s just so hard to believe he’s got such big health problems. Well, with any luck, maybe a miracle will occur and the tumor will stop growing, and Baby will be able to live out the rest of his life – which is about 14 years (he’s 14 now, and his species lives to 28) Who knows? Stranger things have happened. In the meantime, I treasure every day I have with him now. He can do anything he wants, chew the doors, crap on the curtains, shred all my papers…I don’t care. As long as he’s happy and not suffering, I’m happy, too.
So, the other news is that one of my crew has transferred to a location closer to home because of the gas prices and so the rest of us have been picking up the slack. And the other person has been out sick alot lately. So it’s just been my boss and I – and things have been hectic. Also, my boss is set to retire in August so yikes. I don’t want his position – not enough money for all that responsibility and being married to the facility 24/7. And besides, I’m set to retire next year in October. So, things are going to get interesting very quickly at work. Hopefully, they’ll have replacements for both of these guys sooner rather than later, because when my boss goes I’m not stepping up. Nope. His boss will have to do the supervising. No more of that for me.
My grief still comes and goes, though it comes less often now. Gosh, how I miss my mom – all the more as time passes, too. How I wish she were still alive. But we all have to die eventually, and now I find myself thinking of myself when I’m old and gray and I worry that I’ll be able to take care of myself. So many things can happen health-wise so quickly as you age. And I’ll be moving away and out-of-state from everyone I know probably within the next 2-3 years – so I’ll really be all alone. It’s scary. But it’s also something I have to do, so I may as well just grit my teeth and do it. I keep telling myself I’ll be ok, but I worry – will I? And where will I live? Which state will I go to? Right now, it seems like Cape Cod is #1 on the list, mainly because they don’t tax state/govt pensions – and that’s a huge chunk of money saved for me, one I can’t ignore. But the winters are a bit colder and they get those nor’easters. Well, maybe I can timeshare down south during the winter. I still have to visit Maryland and Delaware – that’ll happen after I retire when I can travel at my leisure. So, we’ll see. There are some nice prospects in those states I’ve been looking at – several condo villa communities with really nice amenities – clubhouse, social clubs, pool, close to the ocean…so, we’ll see. I guess it’s safe to say my future is full of possibilities!
Well, that’s it for now – will try to make an entry before another 3 months has passed! In the meantime, go call your mom!!!!!
April 1
Night Fits On A Spring Equinox
Winds whistle about my house but here
inside it’s so still and dry I am choking
on ink and paper dust. My mercurial lady
has not come to visit; I am wordless.
My womb has become barren
and silent, its birthgasp screams
are now fast fading memories.
The full moon illuminates my windows
but leaves me dreamless, frustrated
by fantasies that do not crystalize
though I strive to invent them;
and the night music does not stir
arcane rhythms, though I hear
the wordless melody. It sings itself,
and taunts me with a lilting tune
that laughs at my predicament.
I hum along and pray for sleep
April 2
Red
Primitive, earthy, Satan’s ardorous hue;
you succor my senses.
You’re hotter than a chili pepper
sun that shimmers the tarmac; the flash
of danger beaconing from a fire truck;
the pulsing blood rush of carnal acts;
a ruddy blush that rises up; the matador’s cape
in the bull’s eyes; a debt that cannot be repaid.
I should not be so flippant as I drink you
from a tall-stemmed glass. Tonight
before I begin my private revolution
and paint the town with you
I shall smear you over my lips, wash you into my hair
and sarong your flame about my body;
sigh as your silk shivers my sunkissed skin.
April 3
Doppelganger
After mom left us, it came with tentative taps;
for two months the sounds were dismissed
or thought imagined. Shut doors were found ajar
and shadows fleeted along the length of walls
in one’s peripheral vision. It grew bolder
as days passed, progressed and slid open
then shut mom’s dresser drawers. The sound
of invisible feet quick-stepped down the hall.
Then the loud, cyclic thumping started;
it became a demand not to be ignored,
and of course, all of this only happened
with you were home alone. Desperate,
we blessed the house’s four corners
on every floor; recited the Lord’s Prayer
while wisps of smoking hemp hung
like a curtain wafting in the air. In the end
we opened the front door and ordered it out.
It left us then, but we know not where it went
and we know it was not her.
April 4
The Angler
He baited an attractive hook, set it out,
lit a smoke, kept one eye on the line,
became one with his drifting boat
until a double tug twitched the pole tip.
Then he came alive, relished the yank
and hook-set into tender fish flesh,
his hands shook when he reeled his catch in.
He toyed with it like a cat
until it was almost dead
then threw it back and set about the next
conquest. Success made him feel big
and brought out the swagger
anxious to escape his chameleon skin.
April 5
Farmhand
I remember seeing him, shirt off
and sweat-glistened, straddling the tractor
as he plowed through a fallow field
turning the upper pasture. The breeze
was faint with the scent of him.
I watched the sunlight ripple
along the curve of his meaty biceps,
felt the drone of that engine
slowly inch its way up my legs
until I was weak. I dug
my fingernails into the soft
wood of the railing, drew blood
from my lip. Later on,
after the days work was done,
he hunkered past me as I swung
on a tire beneath the maple,
tipped his hat and said goodnight.
I went inside then, and took a bath.
April 6
New London to Orient
The sun slips from sight as the last fringes
of light feather the horizon; the water
sighs along the hull and the low
murmur of voices filters back
from the bow. A ceiling of fog
hangs a hundred feet above.
The port side is sheltered
from the blustery wind but
the damp still slinks into my bones
as twilight settles like a falling leaf.
Orient Light looms ahead, its beacon
a cheerful harbinger that welcomes me
back to native soil.
April 7
DiSaronno
This thought started with
that television ad, the one
where a sexy siren sucks
a wet chunk of ice
she’s fingered out from her
empty glass. The next shot
shows her with her eyes cast
and locked on the delectable
bar boy, to whom she telepaths
an invitation for a game
of hot hokie-pokie.
Thirst stirred, I get up and pour
a double-shot of amaretto
into a small, ice-filled snifter,
savor the essence of almonds,
let it slip down my throat,
reminisce a bit about those days,
long since turned to dust,
when my glass was kept full
by a pretty paramour or two.
I drain what’s left in my glass
and suck the ice.
April 8
Dragonfly
With wings so diaphanous as to be lambent
you shimmer along the back of the wind
like a darning needle stitching the sky,
your loopings a mere glint of iridescent thread.
Bulbous eyes bulge from your head;
dual, gloss black domes see things tenfold.
How do you know
which image is the original?
Twice born child of water and air; predator;
precision jet halving the heated sky,
delicate wings thrum-humming
a segmented body through staccato moves;
you are all perpetual motion
for to rest too long brings death
April 9
Dominoes
Today the sound of strident voices
grafittied the walls of the house.
My brothers’ hair came undone
from it’s usual, neat ponytail
while a sledgehammer beat against
my ribs; both of us roared as savage
beasts will do when they step
on thorns that lie hidden and waiting
in the grass. It was quick; maybe a minute
of unchecked emotional vomit -
but enough to alter the course of things
to the point of no going back.
Then he had a go at her
after I had run upstairs to search
for my tweezers stashed way in the back
of the medicine chest.
Downstairs doors slammed
and the word fuck
was used as an adjective
for every other word spat out
like venom. In the silent aftermath
I swear I could hear the whoosh
of dominoes toppling down,
leaving ruined paths behind them.
April 10
Seeing Things
The artist’s life attunes itself to solitary notes,
feels the fullness of each resonating quiver,
absorbs to saturation each excess, each loss; leaches
every iota, every nuance and every attribute
from any worthy substance. Observation is key:
slips of tongue, hands, eyes, feet – all are noted,
all are memory-hoarded like so many acorns
burrowed deep into moss, squirreled away
for a winter’s day. Dream songs, skirlish bagpipes,
misty mountains or mist rising from swamps, flecks
of gold afloat in lapis lazuli, fears, tears, cheers -
all are subject, all are raw fodder for the vision maker.
None go out, save for a stroll in the woods or a walk
along the shore to make taut the sagging clotheslines
of inspiration. TV voyeurs, mall mavens, social-
hodgepodge-get-together-and-kibbitz people they are not,
unless they partake of an artistic retreat. They are lured home
by pied pipers, goat gods, tubes of phthalo blue, gesso,
turpentine, pen, paper and pencil; they get equally lost
in simple and complex, see things in the exacting glory
of all their diamond facets. One stroke more, one more
word substitution, and so it goes as their lives become
time-stopped in days and hours; laboring, always laboring
up the steep hill grasping at the coat tails of their favorite gods.
April 11
Baby
Little clown, lime green fluff of feather,
do you know what you mean to me?
So bonded are we, fragile companion;
we are like an old married couple
grown comfortable with each others ways.
I dare not think of the time
when your chatter will cease;
when your unbirdly antics
will not fill my day with mirth.
I must live in the moment,
think not of tomorrow
and your empty cage.
———————————————-
Bleak
This year no turkey and trimmings;
no bright and shinnies beneath the tree.
This year this heart is on sabbatical,
far away from me.
—————————————————
Untitled
The apple tree’s bower is barren, its fruit
returned to the earth; and I hunger
for the sweet meat of her
on this bleak morning. I mourn
in the stillness of an empty house,
focused now on the echoes
of a memory that will one day fade
like the light before the rain.
April 12
The Maenad Ponders
If I had a choice of all the gods
I would choose that lecherous
and strangely erotic creature,
Pan, to give my mad heart to.
Odd choice, yes, but consider
the perks. Meat would be plentiful,
as would milk; I’d have my pick
of fields, groves and wooded glens
in which to run naked through.
Our paniskoi would be precocious
and swift of hoof, melodious of flute;
and they’d all have those cute
little horns to butt heads with;
enough wild delight for any mother.
His herdsman’s hands would be rough
though I’m sure in a pleasing way;
and what of those horns – a good thing
for keeping those disgusting mortal men
at bay, although my love’s powers
of prophecy would foretell of any intrusion
that might be in the offing. Yes,
I would choose Pan to gallop off with
into a perpetual Spring, and drink
my fill of his wine; colorful flowers
would always be abundant to scent
our days, and there would be a balmy
clime; and what better inspiration
to accompany my rituals than the sweet
music of his pipe. Besides, anyone
who can seduce the moon must be graced
with exceptional charms indeed.
Yes, he is enough to arouse
this madwoman’s desire: his hoofed feet,
his sweet melodies, his profuse phallus
(the little devil) would keep any woman
satisfied and spent, never to panic
at the thought of some ho-hum life.
April 13
Serendipity
The word itself fosters a sense of joy; when voiced
it tintinnabulates on the tongue and tickles eardrums;
it is a melody in and of itself, its perfect notes thrum
through invisible scales that arc
aloft in the air. It is the mother tongue of angels.
Say the word aloud and it will caress
your tympanums much the way a lover’s hands
conduct a silent symphony on your skin.
I saw it once, hovering in a cool hollow
of mulberry trees on a summer’s day where
sunlight filtered through the leaves that flittered
in the breeze. It was dancing there, suspended
in the halo of dappled light playing about her head
as she sat quite still upon a bough but hummed,
serene and nonchalant, as if unaware of me
and the sense of wonderment she provoked.
April 14
Cats, Who Needs ‘Em? (challenge response)
Fat, stray, alley; not all are alike. They hiss, purr, hunt, scratch
and bite. They cold shoulder you until called to eat, and even then
they’ll cheat you of affection, won’t even offer a leg rub of thanks
because you see, when they stare at themselves for hours
in the mirror they are seeing themselves on an elevated plane
far above; we are just their servile subjects.
Prissy females are forever preening; their delicate appetites
pass aside all but the meaty table scraps; and they’ll keep you up
all night mewling during their hot season; and males are tom, butch,
bruiser – pick whatever masculine descriptor gives you an image
of a bull with claws for horns. (Although that fits some females, too.)
They love to play. High on their list is climbing to the summit
of Mount Curtains, then slalom shredding their way back down;
but just as popular is going for a stroll along Knick-Knack Way
for the express purpose of nonchalantly knocking over (to the hard,
wooden floor way below) every expensive, cut glass miniatures
your better half has made you sweat for through the years;
but their most favorite game of all invloves upchucking
one slimy, globulous hair ball into every shoe you own.
Yes, cats are an acquired taste. I’ve heard they’re served as delicacies
at some restaurants. Those people have the right idea. Cook the cat,
feed a patron. What the heck, if it puts money in the bank.
April 15
Chickens (Challenge response)
bwock bwock they say and cluck
don’t do nothing but gossip
all the livelong day while the big cock
chases them around and around the pen
until they’re finally cornered in the coop
then it’s peck peck peck scrabble for food
a scrawny-legged army of scavengers
with bobble heads spearing for corn
non-stop until the sun goes down
it’s smelly as hell in the henhouse
where they lay their fat clutches
(not the metal kind, think eggs)
then the farmer takes them away
and each daybreak the same salute
cock-a-doodle-dooooooooooooo!
(roughly translated means:
here I come to get youuuuuuuuu!)
I see now why to be a chicken
is to be afraid……………..
April 16a
Cold
I am slim-hipped, tight-lipped black woman;
no, not in skin, but within. I hide my black,
keep it safely tucked inside the Pandora’s box
I’ve burrowed deep inside my chest.
I put it there long ago, after getting drunk
on the bittersweet wine of betrayal; swept up
the breakage and safely locked it shut inside.
To slide open its clasp would be to loose
a blizzard of magnitude ten; a wind so frigid
it would stem the hot ash of Vesuvius
and turn Hades into a snowy wonderland.
————————————————————-
April 16b
Small Gifts
He hands me a stack of photographs taken during
the glory days, those fond days of remember whens,
when the satchel of grief did not stoop my back.
They are dog-eared and yellowed against my flesh
and smell of must. He rescued them from an album
that fell apart at his touch, decayed by water damage
and a damp cellar where they lay dormant, forgotten.
There are pictures of the neighborhood kids who
I once traded ghost stories with in moon lit tents,
swam in the creek with, or galloped over fields
of tall, sunlit grass with; in this picture we are in the street
playing stick ball. There is another one of Mom at the sink
washing dishes, waving away the picture taker;
one of my brother smiling, and at his side
our last dog, King, a gentle giant of a German Shepherd;
and then I find one
of my first love and me
all smiles and froufrou for the prom
that turns my smile to a frown -
the bastard -
he was a cheat and a liar, a mommy’s boy
wrapped up in a pretty package. He filled my heart with talk
of a white ceremony until I caught him in flagrante one night
with the boss’s daughter doing a black tango on his car’s back seat,
putting in overtime, moving up to top dog.
I was so naive.
My eyes stray back to the photograph, and I sigh;
the girl with stars in her eyes has long since passed on,
but has not gone to heaven. I tear him out of the photograph,
light a match, conflagrante his ass.
April 17
What we lost in the fire
Our estrangement slithered along
the ceiling one night as we lay
on opposite sides of the bed.
Its hollow belly crackled
into a conflagration and gorged itself,
hot licked everything to a black char,
left nothing unmarred.
We watched helpless and shocked
as the back draft of harbored grudges
grew to a fire serpent that spewed
the hot ash of barren years,
its flames twisted and contorted
our lifework into a shapeless mass.
Afterwards, we took a post-crisis tour
of the damage, tried to assess our loss.
The acrid stench of what was left
hung in our nostrils and burned our eyes;
we found nothing to recover.
Blue
Aristocratic, indecent, Caribbean Sea;
you are my favorite hue.
You soothe and relax
unsettled nerves; can be unexpected
as a bolt of luck; point my mood meter
to melancholy or turn my eyes
towards the remote horizon; tinge
chilled skin and angry faces.
I could wear you every day for a year
and still not exhaust all your names;
and what woman can resist you in uniform?
I would bury myself in all your nuances
if I could, wear your ribbon proudly pinned
if bestowed. When I grow old
I will tint my hair with you
and swim naked in your lapis essence,
sated and lulled.
Black
Lightless, endless, dour;
villians wear you well.
Your best offer is a dim outlook
and you can be dangerous or evil, perhaps
even more so than red, your passionate
cousin, and just as sexy; your intentions
are unfathomable and every next step in you
a possible stumble or fall; and speaking of falls,
you could bring disgrace to any good name.
You are the color of foreboding skies
and I do not chuckle when you stray
into comedy; you cloak me in grief
and to be on your list is to be shunned,
like coffee without sugar and cream.
But you bring a certain solace;
I have no need to hide my tears when you
fold me into your arms, and lying in them
my senses pulse loud and strong.
April 20
Bird
Winged messenger, what would you
have me learn from your frivolous
chitter-chit and flash of feather?
Perhaps you have come to teach me
the song of the sky and how it sighs
at the touch of your wings; maybe show me
how to build a nest from grass and twigs;
or demonstrate to me how to pirouette
with my bright plumage, held at angles
just so, to entice a mate.
But I think you have come to teach me
how not to reach, but to allow you to settle
freely on my shoulder while you serenade me
with the sweet notes of your day’s adventures.
April 21
Moondancer
She demands dramatic music
laced with strong shivers of flute,
exclamation point drums; enjoys
the throb and skirl of its fingers
plying her body to its rhythms; needs
the hypnotic chanting of brown-cloaked
monks with moon-gleamed heads -
their throaty notes reverberating
until her skin itches itself alive.
To this she will loose herself
from ceremonial robes to flitter
and pirouette, naked and luminous
in the moonlight, a white butterfly;
an ethereal faerie-creature
who glides with uninhibited grace
through the tulgey wood
until moon succumbs to sun
and there is no place left to run.
April 22
Time
He is no father,
and he is not on our side;
his narcissistic heart fuels a cruel teacher,
a robber. His is a mien colder
than the deepest mine imaginable.
He does not care that he strips our precious ores
and steals our youth; our bodies; our minds;
the presence of family and friends
the longer we bide him.
He enjoys being watched, and holds his
power over us like a surgeon’s steel blade;
lets us know how impatient he is
with his incessant ticks, each another notch
on the pick’s shaft he strips us with.
He takes pleasure in making of himself
a rare commodity; he laughs, privy,
as he watches us mosaic the pieces
of our lives into his stingy allotments
and cares not how much inconvenience
he hoists upon us.
He denies us so many needful things:
unhurried strolls in the park; respites
to restore our sucked dry lives;
he saps our concentration, we lose
precious second chances; his distraction
keep us from paying a fitting homage
to the proper priorities.
Fleeter than Mercury, it is folly to try
to keep pace with the flap of his wings;
we are all doomed to stumble down
endless black pits chasing him forever,
his tail feathers just beyond our reach
until the end of us,
or of him.
April 23
Suppressed
I hear their accusing voices
like dim spectre’s come
to rattle my chained memories
from their indecisive sleep:
sit up straight, finish
what’s on your plate; stop
making noise; don’t act
like a boy, be more lady-like;
and so I was taught how to please.
Even now with my hair gone gray
and the long night coming on,
I am alone
with only the shadows to appease.
April 24
Gold
Rich, precious, old;
you’re a trophy sought by many.
Mr. Finger knows your bouillon is best
savored on a cold, rainy day; it helps
keep the needy fox at bay
and the headmen comfortably seated
in their imposing, gilded thrones.
They say your years are the best
but when I became you
you made my mind dance
a dervish with the past, awakened
my hunger to write a new memoir.
Your woven links cascade in amber waterfalls
when I sarong you about my body; how you shimmer
against my sun-browned skin,
make of me a trinket on a Christmas tree.
Even a poor girl feels rich when you are near.
I like to dust myself with you after a bath,
have you shimmer my skin before I slip
into your fleece, then pour myself
a glass of chardonay and watch you cast
the sunset in a twenty-four carat glimmer.
April 25
Untitled
I went there seeking solace
and maybe adventure; a walk
away from well trodden paths,
an attempt at rediscovering
the self I’d lost.
For too many years I’d been content
to stay at home and forgo quests
but life had dumped a basket of stones
on my doorstep. I chose to shed their heft
and fly north to new lands instead.
Once there I discovered new routines:
which bed to dream in, what time to feed
myself, when to go to sleep.
So many things were different yet
so many were much the same.
I came to know the back roads well
and strange names of different towns;
learned the native lingo, looked around
and forgot why I’d come.
On the ferry ride home, as the sun slid
into a pink grapefruit sea, I realized the stones
were still with me. So I stood at the rail
and cast them overboard, finally ready
for discovery.
April 26
Green
As in the Emerald City, where the wizard is;
As in the rite of initiation, a tenderfoot is;
As in immature, gullible, unseasoned;
As in the color of money and the power it bestows;
As in the season of Spring when everything grows;
As in a woman’s eyes when her lover strays;
As in the color of misfortune, or traffic light go’s;
As in pretty names like jade, turquoise, verdigris;
As in sports like golf, racing, archery;
As in illness, environmentalism, the dress of the army;
As in vegetables like kale, spinach and broccoli;
As in an unripe tomato and unfired pottery.
April 27
White
Pure, clean, innocent;
the complete opposite of black.
Caucasians fly south in the winter, and old women
dye their hair to avoid you; but everyone likes
to have you around for Christmas to watch
your flakes waft down from the heavens.
So many things take your name: elephants, cake,
sheet, wash, ghost, noise, chocolate, magic,
the empty space on this page, the House in Washington.
Generals order their men not to shoot until they see you
in the enemies eyes; and some people have gone to jail,
or worse, for snorting your thin lines.
You surround the yolks of eggs and are the bread we eat.
Your wines mix well with fish and chicken, your salt
and sweet tantalize our tongues.
On blissful Spring days you form myriad shapes in the sky,
shimmer the horizon with confetti-headed trees, at night
paint the constellations so we can see them and dream.
You paint the moon and the fog, the cresting waves; you are there
at the end of the tunnel and clothe the angels who greet us; in movies
you are always the good guy, and never tell lies; you are the flag
of surrender. On my wedding day I shall wear you and your knight
will rescue me, sweep me off to his fairytale castle.
April 28
Prelude
Lifting my arms above my head
I shimmy into a red chemise,
catch my breath as the cool glide
of silk tongues me; inch by inch
I let down my hair, feel it fall
around my shoulders; its fresh cut
gently nips my flesh as I stroke it
with a pearl handled brush.
I take the glass stopper from an
antique Czech perfume bottle,
graze it along my temples, wrists,
the hollow of my neck. Soon the scent
of bergamot and coriander blooms;
it is his favorite scent.
I light the logs in the fireplace, dim
the lights, and place a bottle of fine
Reisling on ice; slice two red delicious
apples and a small wedge of cheddar
onto an oval silver tray;
then wait for the knock
that’s just moments away.
April 29
Damaged
He’s spilled his coffee countless times
on my hand woven rugs, left cup ring
scars on my antique hutch. Each time
his manner was merely casual;
a nonchalant shrug of shoulders
his only visual apology. Not much.
When I finally whimpered my dismay
he daubbed the rug with liberal quantities
of naphthalene, then painted the hutch,
but the invisible stains are still there
like the tan line around my wedding band
camouflaged beneath the gold. Yesterday
he wanted to take me to a thrift shop
for new furniture and rugs, said it was time
to redo the house; but I think not.
Hidden damages cannot be erased.
April 30
Endings
I.
Another day is almost gone and the world spins on
to the next. Death comes at odd hours to rearrange
the playroom. This is an indelible law;
We are but older children, dear, who fret
to find our bedtime near
and dislike our toy carts being upset.
No matter how long or hard we resist, we are tossed
into the rivers current and taken to a distant shore.
The river sighs over all the water-smoothed stones,
sunset comes, and we move on.
II.
He closed the door like he was adding
a period to a sentence. There was no
turning around for a second glance,
there was no wave good-bye;
just his back,
growing smaller in my eyes.
III.
The month ends, and with it goes
the showers, the last of winter’s bite
and the thirty sweaty endeavors
multiplied by one hundred
and then some.
Another NaPo’s hit the dust,
but not before this girl’s said thanks
to everyone who took the time
to read or offer a word of support.
*quote taken from Lewis Carroll’s Prologue to Looking Glass
