screams a calming
tale of rebirth,
pages and pages of lived endings
whispering that death will be just
a different beginning.
for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #39: October Thrills).
pages and pages of lived endings
whispering that death will be just
a different beginning.
for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #39: October Thrills).
I love random walks in forests made of pavement and shops. There
is wonder to be found—and reimagined in ink—in spots where the wildest creature
is human. But people watching while wandering New York City streets is not the
safest of pleasures, in the time of COVID. Still, on cool days when my hospital
dates end before the sun settles for the night, I delight in sightseeing The
Bronx.
My city is an un-stilled picture of our never-ending fight
for social justice,
a crystal canvas where we write and paint our brightest
thoughts and feels.
My city is a haunting glimpse into doing what one can to
survive—
some of the doing is splattered with feathers, rotting
mud, and fouler things.
In the wilderness of bricks and hopes that is my city, zinnias
bloom.
reflection
of disquieting times,
my city
for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #39: Plums and feathers).
I hate brassieres and other corporal
restraints. No, it is not just because the word brassiere sounds a lot
like brazier—which always makes me think of chest meat slow cooking to
tender discomfort—but also because brassieres have a you-hate-me-so-I-shall-torture-you
relationship with most of the nerves in my back.
Thankfully,
the universe in all her wisdom and hunger for balance found it proper to bless
my chest with forever 16-year-old boobs. Until I started dancing with my 40s. After
that, fate and (one of her cancer goons) trapped me in a dark alley, and loud-whispered
in my face, “Your life or your double-boobness, dearie. Which will it
be?”
I kept
my life and a boob. No, my hatred of brassieres wasn’t reduced by half. It was increased
by gazillions, in the sports bra department: good uni-boob support is just so
freaking hard to find.
for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #38: A Helping String, where Rommy asks us to write while thinking of “things meant only as a temporary or hidden support.”).
my garden blushes
in the most delicious shades
of ripening fruit
Late
summer looks
much like autumn
springing before nature changes
skirts.
when trees burn,
the world grows darkly
uncanny
the wee notes…
- the new Blogger and I are currently
in the I-sincerely-detest-its-guts stage. I can never understand why some platforms take
something that works just fine, and turn it into an unnecessary nightmare. I can’t
think of a single Blogger “improvement” I like, but I can tell you which I really
loathe: not being able to post clear photos.
- to see the photos that inspired these
poem bits, click here, here, and here.
- for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #38: Ominous Times).
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.” – Terry PratchettIf you’ve read me for a while, you might’ve noticed that I’ve shared the quote above more times than it’s probably decent. I can’t help it—whenever the topic of “last words” enters the conversation, that particular bit of Pratchett wisdom finds its way into my skull. So... when Rosemary asked for writing which considered what our final message to the world would be, the quote spilled into my muse’s ink and inspired her to stitch the following American Sentence:Weep—when goodbye hurts—but remember I lived and loved, therefore I am.
another wee note…- while I was searching for the wee poem, I found myself wishing the page had contained the word “wrote” instead of “loved”. Then, after I was done, I was glad that it didn’t. For I thought, Yes, “I lived and wrote” would’ve been cool. But “I lived and loved (to laugh, to run, to cook, to garden, to write, to read, to love…) is accurate.
- for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #37: Last Messages)
Positivity,they tell me, is so much ashin delusion’s mouth.I say nothing, but wonderwhy their phoenix stopped burning.
photo by Volodymyr Hryshchenko, on Unsplash for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #36: “a phoenix first must burn” and Writers’ Pantry #37: Rise of the Stink Bugs)
I practice patiencein self-defense, protectionagainst burning allthe world’s bridgeswhile standing on the wrong sideof the forest that growshope on trees;patience is what keepsfeet and wit from fleeingat the sight of a lion draped around a tree,without ever wondering ifwild beasts are in the way, never letting memove forward—reach a leaf of hope—or if lions only climb trees to escape the heat.
via the wee notes…- in the wise (and creatively spelled) words of Granny Weatherwax, “I Ate’nt Dead”. I’ve just had a gazillion appointments. Mostly follow ups and a wee surgery here and there. So, yeah… the red funeral clothes you ordered are a bit premature 😜- after seeing the photo of a lion on a tree, when I was very young, I was convinced the majestic beast was waiting to jump on its prey. Then I heard somewhere—The Animal Planet, I think—that lions climb trees to escape bugs and the savanna heat. Yeah, I was disappointed too *cough*
- linked to Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #36: Change of Season), The Sunday Muse #124, and Kerry O’Connor’s Skylover Word List