blogging a little of a lot
If you stay on one side
and I the other
how will I know the color of your eyes
what tune your voice plays when your words lilt into the air?
How will I know if humor is one of your senses
or if the shoes you wear have traveled far?
I want to know what made you grow
and what kept you stagnant
what made you smile
and what made you weep
If you stay on one side
and I the other
how would I ever be
enlightened?
image by Kerfe at https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/2018/06/29/waves/
Dive into my center
past the bog of obstacles,
the sharp edges,
the pointed arrows.
Peel this artichoke
layer by layer
leaf by leaf
through tiny thorns.
See past the choke
into the light
of my waiting heart.
To taste the smells of distant shores
contents of wares within wooden crates
heaved on sturdy shoulders
to reach my hand between the wooden slats
and feel the relics
like silk between my fingers
those tastes of memories.
To taste the smells of distant shores
teas and spices peddled by steadfast merchants
exotic oils purified and funneled into blue glass bottles
the dusty threads of ancient Persian carpets
woven by still, sure hands
the taste of skill and craftsmanship
of those who came before.
I want to taste the smells of distant shores
the ports of entries open
for senses to rouse
for eyes to open
in harbors safe
a saving grace
exposure to
the new.
Why?
Why did they leave?
Was time too short to leave footprints in the sand
or did they level the playing field to erase proof of their presence?
Did they call to me before bidding adieu
when my ears remained distant?
Discouraged I’m not.
Beneath the sea
A plethora of life.
And now September burns the careful tree
That builds each year the leaf and bark again
With solemn care and rounded certainty
That nothing lives which seasons do not mend.
…
The young are never robbed of innocence
But given gold of love and memory.
We live in wealth whose bounds exceed our sense,
And when we die are full of memory.
by Donald Hall
Mr. Hall died last Saturday, June 30th. He was 89.
I wonder why I wander
in this forest thick sans light
how the birds can fly above it all
peering down upon this “sight.”
What must they think of us below –
– this self-discovery mass –
who struggle dusk to dawn each day
to fly a life first class?
But I will not give up this path
dark or light, while restless
for awed discovery of things unknown
makes this wanderer breathless.
The human course, it often baffles –
the politics, ego, discord –
who wants the giveaways of maniacs?
No, they can keep their judgement raffles.
But if something makes our bellies churn
the core, an apple rotten,
then curious it makes our eye
perhaps, it’s then, we learn.
painting by CD-W
Sweat puddles and drips down to her seven-year-old feet
like the ice cream will soon do.
A sweltering Texas summer.
Grandpa grins through his cigar, proud of his summer income.
Peaches in boxes and sacks.
Peaches in crates
lined up on tables beneath his covered stand.
A pocketknife cuts off a slice of sweet fruit
and extends toward a willing customer.
Grandpa smiles again, pleased with the satisfaction on the consumer’s juiced face.
The ancient Black man, mouth empty of teeth, dismounts his horse.
Grandpa readies a fresh peach. “Afternoon, Washington.”
Washington nods, mumbles, shows his gums.
Grandpa adds another peach to his hand. “Take these for your ride to town.”
The man smacks his curved-in lips together,
up and down, up and down,
a toothless man’s “thank you.”
The walk-in cooler an instant relief.
But the bushels of peaches offer no jokes,
no grins,
no Grandpa conversations.
Outside, parched again, she accepts the quarter and returns Grandpa’s smile.
A short walk toward the small diner.
The lady in a pink uniform and matching hat says, “Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?”
“Strawberry.”
The ice cream, scooped. The cone, topped with a pink, cold delight.
Fifty steps back to the peach stand.
Fifty steps back to Grandpa.
The ice cream drips and threatens to disappear.
But the heat is no match for Grandpa’s disposition.
His smile and character remains solid, strong, and real.
Un-meltable.
(photo of Grandpa taken in the early sixties)
