Saturday, February 27, 2021

Crafting Memories

Wails are absent,
today. There’s Bachata music,
and gentle torrents of stubborn tears
gloss my grin--I always
grin

on February’s end,
when echoes of your voice season
all my thoughts,
when coconut milk simmers
with brown rice and pigeon peas
under a bed of fresh plantain leaves

(because tastes and sounds matter
when crafting memories of gone love
back to life)
.

Wails are absent, but there is music.


photo by Dave Weatherall, on Unsplash


- for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #59: Love and Loss).

Saturday, February 20, 2021

Tales of Snow and Chaos and Gardening and Such…

not-quite Journaling, 6

on fresh snow,
autumn lies dreaming

dreams of spring

2/1/2021: I’ve never been able to see a fallen oak leaf without thinking of autumn. The feeling gets stronger in winter (since in the cold, I always yearn… for warmer things). So, today, while good old NYC is being blanketed by snow, I am thinking of autumn and spring (and wondering what’s keeping summer-thoughts away).

wee tales of winter
printing primavera hints

on a snow canvas

 2/6/2021: On my latest walk back from the hospital, I found myself looking for flowers (a silly thing, I know, since it’s the middle of winter). Still, I searched… After walking almost three miles, and seeing no blooms, my hopes were diminishing. Then, I ran into a small bush of wild daisies peeking through the snow. No, I did not fail to notice that they looked… dead(ish). I just also realized that they were pregnant with seeds. The latter inspired me to do a little dance (the cackles were inspired by the sight of several New Yorkers staring at the mad woman dancing on the sidewalk).


a criticizing
shadow, spewing unkindness,
will seethe when ignored

2/9/21: The other day, I glimpsed an individual, who delights in spreading poisonous rumors, being consumed by helplessness-infused rage fed by the realization that no one cared about them or their nonsense; for a not-so strange reason, the wicked sight made me grin for a long, long, long time. 😁 Yep, I’m a terrible woman! Bwahahaha! 


Chaos is fun,

in theory.

2/11/2021: A few years ago (while drunk on ridiculousness, I’m sure), I decided that storing my blackouts in a box (no order necessary) would be a splendid idea. I convinced myself that organizing the whole thing later would be fun. What was I thinking! 😭 Now, the only thing I’m sure of is that the process will take months—I hope you are ready for a reposting (or 13), since I keep finding bits I wish to reshare. That, at least, is fun.


Snow coats New York City roofs and a green pepper grows—winter magic.


(2/15/21: My wee living room jungle)


for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #58: Is It Spring Yet?).

Wednesday, February 17, 2021

Reality Is Heart and Mind

My heart is a surreal lover
of eerie constellations, of promising soil,
of dancing birthed in ink.

My mind is a sun-bathed garden
full of mirror-loving monsters,
of darkness exposed, of darkness beloved.

Reality is the dark-bright we nurture.


 

- created for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #57: Let Us Write (together)). Inspired by the photos shared above and the phrases, “Be an uncrushed flower”, “Burst into constellations of dance”, and “Love can be a monster, or not.”

Saturday, February 13, 2021

Streaking with Friends


 Post-chemo flesh and bones

s t r e a k i n g
on a trampoline,

stark naked
relief
fueling every one of my steps.


photo by Jasper Garratt on, Unsplash

(these aren’t my feet or my mini-trampoline or my pretty anklet, but the photo shows one of the things I love most about running on a trampoline: I can run
[and bounce!] barefoot without hurting my back or knees or feet)

- an old friend (who recently had a heart attack and is now trying to get his weight under control) sent me an email with the subject line, “Let’s go streaking all over the city!” Don’t feel too terrible if his word choices filled your skull with images of naked people running around New York City dodging piles of snow, yellow taxis, and bewildered cops. It’s the first thing I thought about, too. After further reading, I figured out that my friend hadn’t turned into a nudist overnight; no, nothing that deliciously scandalous, he just wanted to start running every day. My flesh and bones and I haven’t run on pavement in ages (my back, hips, knees can no longer take that kind of abuse). So, I declined the “streaking all over the city” bit. But, since I can benefit from losing a pound (or 31), I said yes to a running streak on my trampoline.

- for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #57: Infinite Variety).

Tuesday, February 2, 2021

Turning

We are walking in a forest of wild ink, when she says, “Lie on the leaves with me.”

I’ve never been able to resist a bed of fallen leaves or the pull of prompting ink. So, I lie down next to her, my left arm so close to her right arm that I can feel her thoughts several moments before they grow into words and spill out of her lips.

“Tell me a story about turning into one of your parents—which, for you, might be something desirable,” she says. “Or recite me a poem about resisting such a fate.”

“Wouldn’t you rather hear a real story? Perhaps, one where I turn into a raven? Or the poem in which the raven I turn into goes on a raw nonsense and pickled eyeball diet?”

Smiling, she says, “Give me poetry. Some treats shall never be denied.”

Quite pleased, I start reciting:

the taste of nonsense
(thick!) tends to stick to the tongue,
so I peck eyeballs—

And I am very good at pecking, so by the time the first scream begins to gurgle in her throat, my wings are caressing the clouds, and my stomach is consuming all the good and the bad and the mad she has ever seen—delicious.


photo by Jack Taylor, on Unsplash


- for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #55: “What You Resist,You Become., Writers’ Pantry #56: Random Bits of blog-Housekeeping) and Twiglet #212 (“we lie close”).

friends and such...