Morning drifts away with chores I assign myself: The must do, the needs to be done— An endless list to fill a notepad next to the calendar: Feed the dogs, Clean and fill the hummingbird feeders, Change the sheets, Do the ironing, Neatly fold the sheets from the dryer so they align perfectly on the shelf in the closet-- Leave no time to think. Even less time to feel. Keep all thoughts, All feelings at bay. Use the list like a whip and a chair. Let no old cliché hold any sway. Whip the old “nothing ventured, nothing gained” into a new pose of Nothing ventured, nothing lost upon the circus stand, a much easier creature to manage this way.
Month: August 2023
Golden Promises
golden promises shimmer in summer’s sunlight somehow cozy now think eternity somehow cozy, snuggled in velvet lined starlight as earth turns toward fall no comfort of faith within Fatima’s secrets
Moonwashed Weekly Prompt – Somehow-cozy – Moonwashed Musings (amanpan.blog)
Of Wounds and Winter
Winter exists in this quiet realm: The place of spring dreams where from rich loam colors emerge vibrant, as if hope, become a virgin, offered her hand to lessen Winter’s ache enough the wounded reach to touch without wounding in the trying.
An Unrepentant Sky
merge with the unrepentant sky, learn the truth, the reasons why suffering and fear and hatred abound, feeding upon human souls, destroying what Nature did so elegantly design, the beauty of humanity from the inside out-- until we are devils, our mouths foaming blood-tinged froth while our claws fill with sinew torn from our innocent brethren, who different from us, are deemed worthy only of hate— and the earth turns on its axis of destruction in an unrepentant sky as any God that be cries.
Where Cloud Shadows Paint
still quiet, breath stops a moment-- striations apparent upon the red rock in the distance-- sound unheard speaks a language our ancestors once knew-- perhaps our souls once spoke words lost to us now yet here where clouds paint shadows upon the land our souls feel the rhythm of a language we once knew
The Heart
An odd creature, powers through a day, decades, a life. A four chambered survivalist beast, outlasting all fracturing cracks of grief when the spirit, will, mind drift away. In imitation, a four chambered thing beats on and on.
Ink, Time, Books
A few minutes every day, at times, stretching into hours, I write to you in this book, writing words whispering mysteries of the winds in the mountains. At times, my words still, shifting, settling then sighing as moonstone white clouds rest, caressing the tops of mountains. I have burned hundreds of ink filled books over these many years when disgusted with the imperfection of my scribbled pages. The heat of their fires never offered much warmth. Now, I save my scribble filled books though you may never see them. Forty-five years, I have written words to you, yet you never knew, and neither did I until this moment.
A Small Moment
Strong, the breeze this evening
bringing the scent of grilling burgers
from a distant neighbor’s yard.
The sounds of soft sighs issue
from the dogs at my side.
The hummingbirds perform
an elegant ballet concerning
territorial claims as the symphony
of their brilliant buzzing
makes us all look up.
Stillness—
Then—
A rumble in the distance.
The scent of rain at war
with the scent of grilling burgers
from the neighbor’s yard.
The drops of rain pelt,
driving away
the smell of grilled meat.
Now, only the scent of rain remains.
The battle won.
Protected under the patio cover,
The dogs and I sigh.
My Mother’s Washboard
The old washboard
stands in a five dollar flea market tub
with three faded, scratched up tall coke bottles,
a rusted plaid patterned lunch pail,
a red plastic mesh bag filled with used beach toys,
a broken hobby horse some kid rode once
while yelling, Hi, Ho, Silver! Away!
Among this disregarded dusty junk,
the old washboard looks fragile
as if the wood surrounding the corrugated steel
might fracture should a woman grasp it
intending to use it to scrub stains
from familial laundry
like my mother did with her’s.
I remember my mother’s washboard
standing in her soaking bucket,
filled with 20 Mule Team Borax, Biz, and hot water,
which stood in the concrete laundry tubs
in the basement of the house.
I remember how her knuckles turned red,
the skin raw looking, as she scrubbed blood
from a blouse, pouring salt from a Morton’s
salt container onto the stain then scrubbing
up and down, up and down on the washboard,
then dunking the blouse twice
to see if the stain was gone.
Pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk
pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk
pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk
The pattern, the rhythm, until the stain erased.
I have no soaking bucket,
no Twenty Mule Team Borax, no Biz,
no washboard
to get my stains out.
My spray bottle of Oxi Clean Stain Remover
pales in memory
of my mother’s washboard.
For the Boy Who Would Not Stay
I decided to repost this piece since in the process of doing a little clean-up work on the blog I discovered the link to this piece was no longer available.
I hold your reflection close, But it slides, evaporating from my grasp, While dripping condensation. My heart stutters with if only’s. My soul begs, pleads, bargains With you to stay. My mind whispers your name, Calling after you, Asking why you are leaving. Are you angry that I told no one Of your blessed presence here? Can you understand I was afraid I’d jinx it? Somehow, I knew— Knew you wouldn’t stay— I felt it from the start. A few weeks only— And you’d go away. My lips whisper. My soul begs. My heart stutters. My body cramps, Clamping down once again. My brain knows it is time. Time to wash the blood and gore away— Time to let your reflection fade.