Beautiful Silence

Sitting on the step, a tiny cat for company,
I listen to nothing so much as the wind
In the pines, and the occasional snap of a branch.
The cat likes to be petted on her own terms,
She tells me she is done by grabbing my hand
Placing teeth ever so slightly on skin.
Reminder to me that she COULD tear in,
But chooses not to do that,
Mercy in a tiny package.

?

The lazy whirr of the ceiling fan
Is in stark contrast to the silence.
Starlings sneak around taking cat food,
Flying nervously away if I move.
I am growing accustomed to this quiet,
Beginning to really like it.
Which will be just in time for chaos,
When the boys are home.
Their very presence lends more noise,
Breath, talking, movement, energy.
Savor the silence for a few more minutes,
Then it is out the door, into the fray.

Pitch

Pitch, not the softball one, or the musical one.
The log one!
A piece of wood for the fire, just dripping with sticky pitch.
Some might call it sap, the curious might touch it,
Only to be taken aback at how it coats and spreads on skin.
The fresh pine scent might be the only nice thing about it.
No, wait, there is one more nice thing about it,
The flames leaping high when  it is placed on the fire.
This, though, comes complete with really noxious black smoke,
Which seems to follow each of us around the fire pit.
Gust of wind, inhale a bit of ash and smoke,
Yet the magical dancing flames leap higher
And higher in a frenzy of orange and yellow
Dancing.

Written in Stone

I think I will go see my mother next week,
Or at least the green square that marks her grave.
It won't be a solemn occasion, I guess,
Since I will see the wonderful strangeness of my family
When I look at the stone.
She died on one sisters birthday, which I am sure is sad,
What my other sister did with it, well, it was what
Mom would have done, and I had a laugh.
The stone is beautiful, and imparts the information,
Name, date of birth, but one thing is wrong.
The death date has been moved forward one day,
Which struck me and my brother funny.
We laughed until we gasped for breath.
I actually asked my other sister if she knew,
And, very much like our mother, she replied
That anyone who wanted to know could ask
In the cemetery office.
My bet is, they won't.
For, after all, the date is now literally carved in stone.

Understanding

Forty years too late I begin to understand
What perhaps drove you out the door.
Even more, I get what tugged you back,
It is hard to leave, even when you need to.
Four years old, all I could see was chaos,
And a dim realization you were gone.
Watching you climb in a car,
Not getting it was supposed to be forever.
Homecoming was less dramatic,
You were just there, in your misery.
I now know you were living a half life,
Bounded by children and the right thing to do.
It is apparent to me, the outrageous things,
They were driven by misery and mental illness.
The door finally closed behind you for the last time
Nine years later, which wasn't any easier.
That time I got it, and completely understood
The leaving was forever, and that was that.
It was harder that time, to know for sure,
And I fought it the best I could.
The known, even as messed up as it was,
Was so much easier to cope with than the unknown.
But, now, I understand, and look at it all
In a different light.
It isn't all about me anymore, I can empathize
With the different currents pulling you around,
And begin, finally, to understand.

Tethers

Silky invisible fibrous things,
Interconnected with family,
Stretched to the limit.
I don't want to call,
Not great at letter writing,
But I think about you.
Wonder if I would float adrift,
If or when these invisible jesses
Are severed some day.
I bet by that time I will have
Woven my own tethers,
Keeping my children,
And my childrens' children
From drifting all away.

Morning

Sounds from upstairs indicate
The boys are up,
I smell coffee, so that is brewed.
Footsteps track across the kitchen,
Refrigerator opens and shuts,
Light comes on,
I am pulled into the day
By the request that I find
Some little bit of left behind stuff.
Would you bring it when you come up?
Of course....

LIfe

Chaos erupting in a moment,
Two of us out the door,
A few hours of music,
A letter bestowed,
Back home,
Will it be chaos?
Or totally calm?

Pine

The pine tree is blooming,
Can it have blossoms?
Yes, but not the fragile ones
Found on the irises, or cherry tree.
A pine has these tiny cone shaped
Pieces that rest on the end of each branch,
Shedding pollen like gold dust
It floats away, lost on the breeze.
Last seasons pine cones are
On the ground, picked over
By squirrels, blown down by wind.
Late spring rain is beating down the pollen,
The tree stands, holding out its
Flowers like offerings.

Beginning

I am beginning to slide off the map
As my needs are slowly being consumed
By the every day and the routine.
Wondering how it will all
Turn out at the end of the day
Would it have been the best
Or neatest.
So far, so good,
I just need to keep going.

What If

What if that creaking in the elevator
Was not the strain on a cable
Or the turning of a pulley.
What if the whooshing sound
Was not just displaced air,
Or the fan in the ceiling.
What if the creaking was the sound
Of zombie nails on metal,
The creaking the prizing of a bar
Held in undead hands?
What if the whooshing sound
Was the hot breath of decaying lungs?
And the beeps for each floor would
Become the alarm telling passengers
That the undead live in the elevator shaft.

Lassitude

Lassitude flows through my body
Taking thoughts and inspiration with it,
All the way down, too lazy to be a fast process
It slips languorously away.
I would love to say something profound,
But find I am caring less and less
About accomplishing much of anything.
It sounds good to lay down,
And just let this overtake me.
Drifting away in a fog
Letting go.

Start

Lay aside assumptions
That fill your head with
Slag and grimy sludge,
Put them out for a bit
Let the cleansing light in
Start over with no notion
Of how it will be
Give others a chance
A chance to have changed
Rather than locking them
Forever in your own
Last best guess of
How they will be.

Spiders

A thousand tiny dots
Hanging in an invisible web
Only visible if you really look.
Cascading down on the steps
Very still until I blow gently
Then they all move.
Tiny beings
Ready to be
Out in the world.

Breeze

Softly moving,
Caressing me with each breath
Carrying the scent of flowers,
Unidentified as yet.
Fanning the flames
Of my ardent desire
To simply stay and enjoy
The touch and interplay
Of sunlight and shadows
Moving at your will
Once again plying the floral
Fragrance of that yet to be seen
Blooming tree or bush
Playing it like a melody
Half-remembered and set
In a rhythm that only makes sense
If you stop and listen with
All your senses
To that gorgeous spring breeze.

Buckeye

In varying shapes of round,
Always a rich, dark brown,
With a spot of lighter tan,
I always called them buckeyes,
And as long as I can remember,
I have really just liked them.
As a child when I found a tree,
With the treasure scattered beneath,
I could be found filling my pockets
With buckeyes till they bulged.
I am not sure why I like them
And it is almost embarrassing
Even today, if I find a tree,
I can be found picking up
These delightful treasures,
In fact, I just found one on my desk,
And I spent a little time just
Admiring the rich brown color,
Perfection.

Lie

A lie slipped out like
Eels through a rocky
River bottom.
Just like that,
You pushed it out
No effort, no thought.
Silly things that
Really don't matter,
I could challenge you.
Why should I though?
What you are doing
Hurts no one
Except maybe yourself.
It used to matter
That someone got one
Over on me,
And now, it doesn't.

I Want

I want to push the button and re-open communication,
But I am afraid, sorry to say, afraid.
I am scared it will open those deep wounds,
That fatal day my friend, your mother, died.
Oh, for this to work, I have to be honest,
It was when she killed herself.
A splendid piece of light went out,
And I was shocked she could leave you.
I kept in touch for a while, obligation,
Caring, feeling so helpless you were cheated.
Worse was the way you could tell the pain,
It needed to come out, I know that,
And I don't blame you, one bit.
I feel terribly guilty that I just could not,
Couldn't carry the burden of your grief,
Along with my own.
There, I said it, I felt like I failed you,
I couldn't fix what was wrong,
Unless I could raise the dead.
I hope I can tell you this when I do
Choose to push the button,
And talk again.

Sleep

Whispering, winding, twining
Through my mind as I float
Lazily in a twilight slumber
Pushed by the currents of
Unconscious thought
I see pictures not fully formed
Blurred by the water that flows
Blankets of  thought pulled
Over my body
Relaxing through it all
Blossoms fall whitely
Through the air
To land in little fragments
All along my body.

Coffee

Sipping slowly, steaming gently,
Sweetened with sugar,
Paled with cream.
Relax and savor the flavor.
Or, just black please,
Splashed in a cup
Still steaming,
Gulped in haste.
Middle ground?
The cup you take
From room to room,
Set it here, sip it there.
Fantastic in all its moods.

Sort Of

Sort of wintry
Blowing wind,
Kind of springy
Blooming flowers.
Mostly undecided.

None

There is nothing so startling
As the cessation of sound
When the screaming ends
And the silence begins.
Or the chattering of the birds
And the squeaking of the swing
Rustle of leaves,
Shotgun blasts away the noise.
It is so hard to deal
With the last moments
Before it all changed
One bad decision, bang.
In the end, the birds sang again
And I would see the tire
Pushed by the breeze
The rope squeaking.
And then the cessation of noise,
Slowly, gently turning away.
Hush, be gentle, fade beautifully
Then none.

Sadness

What triggers that feeling,
Sadness for the little old man,
Overhearing someone say
They had never seen a little old man
Cry like that.
It didn't help when the next sentence
Was he forgot, and did better,
Which didn't make it ok.
Then the sadness
Of hearing she just stopped
Knitting when her daughter died.
The yarn came with a sad story,
And it was manifest in the way
Projects were just set in the bag.
She was away for a moment,
It really looks like she will be back
To finish.

Catnip

If you give our gray cat catnip she will bat the ball around, and drag herself along the carpet to get to it, as if standing is just too much effort. I have confiscated the ball of catnip, and she is still rolling around in the area, detecting the miniscule scraps of catnip that have fallen from the ball. It is awesome. This usually reserved cat is currently chasing her own tail and laying belly up, washed up on a carpeted shore. Orca at rest. I can't wait to try it on the black cat.....

Beginning of the End

It is the beginning of the end
Trite, overused phrase,
Describing that moment in time
When, if you look back,
You can clearly see which
Turn and which decision
Catapults you to the crescendo.
That infinitesimal little bump,
The dust under the lamp,
Or the shatter of that dish,
The words you can't take back,
A blow given in anger,
We could say the start
Of something terrible,
But that isn't really accurate,
All endings cannot possibly
Be terrible,
So really, the only thing to say
That doesn't judge or condemn
Is to say
It is (was) the beginning of the end.

Comfrey Flowers

I was reminded tonight of comfrey
And how the flowers bloomed.
For some reason, we had comfrey in the garden.
The leaves made a nice tea,
If you like things like that.
Once it was established,
It came back, year after year.
There were many times
I pulled the tiny blossoms off,
Touching the end to my tongue,
Just to get that shock of sweet
One tiny drop of nectar,
Nestled in the bottom of the flower.

I Would

I would
Wish for a long day
Like I had in childhood
The kind that stretched forever
That was only bounded by getting up
With no thought of the logical end
Of the day.
Those days of laying in the summer grass
Watching the dragonfly light
And the butterfly bloom
The spider catch the fly.
Full light, blue sky,
I can smell the moisture
Beneath the grass
Taste the nectar in the flower,
Later, indeterminate time
The call from the back door.
Grounding in reality,
Pretending I don't hear.
Go to ground somewhere else.

untitled

What was that little voice in my head saying
All those years ago?
Give up, you are nothing, worthless.
Once I got past that, I could start
What I meant to do,
And some days were better than others.
Others being the ones where the layer
Of static and stuff became too much,
And nothing got done,
Days turned to years, and years
Became decades
And I was unaware.
The only thing I had going for me
Was the will to get up and fight another day.