Tag Archives: love

To Those Who Wish to Improve the World

 

I respect anyone

who has kept their heart alive

in this waging world of ours.

the movers and shakers

blood and marrow donators

charity fund raisers

politics chasers

People who go out into the cold

and find someone

who needs a jacket.

People who give everything

who are betrayed and taken advantage of

who stand up again

and again

and walk back into the fray

a broad field of blood, death and destruction

they go right out to the middle

and try to stop the madness

or at least

just try to save one life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Things Grandma Had

 

I think I’m going to reduce to posting once a weekday instead of twice. My creative juices are starting to run a bit dry and need to re-moisten. You know how creative juices are. It’s hard to run with an idea if you’re not well-lubed with creative juices.

Well, this was gross. Let’s never talk about creative juices again.

 


 

Grandma had a gumball tree.

We would play in her yard

Climb the tree

She used to marvel aloud

at how high we could get

and we’d flush with pride.

 

Grandma had a kitchen table.

She used it well

Heaping it with purchased food

sweets the neighbors had given her

dishes her family had cooked.

 

Grandma had four sons.

Three with families

All tall men

Every able-bodied son or grandson

would bump their head

against the low-hanging chandelier.

It was a family joke.

 

Grandma had cable TV.

We would watch it

and eat ice cream from her freezer

unsupervised

late into the night.

 

We spent time at Grandma’s

watching TV

and eating

and talking

and eating

and sometimes she would take us out

to eat.

By the time we left her house

we had costume jewelry

or a dollar store trinket in hand.

She wasn’t satisfied

unless you left

belly hard-packed with food

and both hands full of gifts.

When we got home

we couldn’t eat again

for twenty-four hours.

 

Grandma had a lot of things.

Grandma was a hoarder.

She survived the Great Depression.

But she gave

everything.

She once tried to give me

functional furniture

right out of her kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Proud

 

Dad said he’s proud of me.

I well up inside at the words.

What the hell is he proud of me for.

And why should it matter?

I’m fucking thirty.

Part of me thinks, oh Dad, I don’t need that anymore.

Part of me thinks, what have I done that’s any good?

Part of me thinks, I really am something, aren’t I.

And part of me deep down

A very early, primal part

Starts jumping up and down and clapping her hands.

 

I have no success in work

I have no success in art

I have no success in home making

I have no successful mate

I have no success in health or beauty.

I do moderately well in most things.

Proud?

Of me?

Just… generally?

How does a parent think?

Why does he feel proud?

Maybe he’s just happy I turned out okay

Maybe that’s all a good parent really hopes for.

And he was a good parent.

He still is.

A really wonderful parent.

I’m proud of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

Imagining Losing You

 

To lose you

Unimaginable

You are half of me.

You are always there.

When I need a laugh,

When I need a cry.

You know me best

You read my heart

You see my soul.

To lose you

Is to lose myself.

A vital organ

Roughly excised

By uncaring reality.

I have confidence in my ability to face anything

Only because you support me.

Nothing scares me

Except

The prospect of life without you

Makes me dizzy with fear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

Roach Sonnet

 

This stemmed from a conversation me and my friends had in a group text.

I am blessed to have the most interesting and creative friends, and our conversations are always something else.

Cowdog Creatives (Hannah) took this picture and sent it to our text group, saying how dramatically it died in the last ray of sunlight.

 

 

Another friend said it looked like an Italian opera singer, declaring in song his long-unspoken love to the fair Limoncello with his final breath.

I can’t write opera, but I can write melodramatic sonnets, so I had to join in poking fun at this roach’s dramatic death.

It’s OK to cry.

 


 

Fair Lemoncello, golden wings and thighs

No weeping from those scintillating eyes.

I am content that you have heard me speak;

No grief should mar the shine upon that cheek.

 

What warmth is this that causes my love worry?

A ray of sunlight, yet I cannot scurry.

It lays bare all my tender love for thee.

There is no fear where Lemoncello be.

 

There’s nothing more to say. My soul is clear.

I cannot stay, my insect queen, to hear

Thy chirped response; angelic though you be

A darker angel draws now near to me.

 

I do not mind death’s amply lit approach.

Today this nymph developed into roach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

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