October Is Bittersweet

not-quite Journaling, 74

 

10/1/2024: I love October--the colors, the clothes, the food, the spooky decorations, the lore, the tales, the remembrance of the lives of my Dead. I know some people find celebrating the dead with merriment weird (even ghoulish), but I’ve always thought it extra lovely to have a special time of the year when we share stories (sad and happy and funny) about the lives of those we’ve lost to death. It’s one of the best ways to keep them alive (in our hearts). 

 

Love waits--not always
patiently, perhaps; still,
love that has been touched,
love that has been fed,
love that remembers
love... waits.

10/6/2024: During a breast cancer awareness meeting, two individuals were discussing (okay, they were arguing at the top of their lungs about) cancer and true love. One shouted that if the love is true, the partner of a cancer patient would never leave them. The other yelled that if the cancer patient truly loves their partner, then they would understand the partner’s decision to walk away. When they asked a few of us our thoughts on the issue, I said that love is personal and complicated. The disgusted looks on their faces told me they didn’t think much of my opinion. So, I shut my mouth and started this poem bit. I still think that different loves are differently complicated. Selfishly (and unrepentantly), I’m just glad that my own love has been made stronger by my own ordeal. Also, I’m rather relieved that I don’t feel the need to scream at people, when I disagree with their much too loud views--ignoring them (and doing something that soothes me) is way more satisfying.  

 

10/10/2024: There are songs I only listen to in October. There are foods I only eat in October. Songs and foods that were the favorites of loved ones I’ve lost to death. I think of them always, but I only let the memories linger in October… 

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #148: October Is Bittersweet)

Screaming Doesn’t Help (much)

not-quite Journaling, 73

Screaming doesn’t seem to help much,
so I shall harvest myself a soothing.

9/22/2024: I’m not dead. I figured I should put that out there right away. I haven’t been feeling awesome--physically or emotionally--but I’m getting better. I lost several friends, to a preventable accident, in the last few weeks. The grief hasn’t been easy on my flesh or bones or spirit. I needed a break… I’ve spent a lot of time crying (all right, screaming rage-filled tears), reading old favorites, watching my plants grow, letting my Piano Man comfort me, smiling at messages from many of you (thank you!), and straight out roaring with laughter at increasingly outrageous memes from Rommy (humor--particularly dark humor--is one of my favorite medicines, and mi querida amiga knows that).

Today, I chose to celebrate the Autumnal Equinox by doing some harvesting and delighting in the gifts my wee garden has produced this season. I pulled the sweet potatoes out of the soil with my bare hands--the dirt felt warm and alive, and I bet the potatoes will taste just as life-giving. The tomatoes have been sweet, juicy, and plentiful. The passion fruit needs more time (we can relate, can’t we?).

I’ll spend the next few days catching up. I hope life is being good to you. I hope the world isn’t causing you much pain. I hope society’s current turmoil isn’t clobbering your nerves. I hope you are as well as is humanly possible. I hope… for us all.

 

on days marred with loss,
I’ll let autumn rain cleanse pain
of flesh and spirit

 – for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #146: Substitutions)

Petrichor; or, The Smell of Wet Earth

not-quite Journaling, 60

“They watch me to see what kind of woman I’ll be. A bad woman. The kind of woman that don’t let herself get taken so easily. A feisty woman. A woman of machetes and undiluted rum. A woman with painful stories and the bravery to claim them.” ~ MLM

10/2/2023: Like in the quote, the poems in Melania Luisa Marte’s collection sing (and roar) thoughts of roots, defiance, community, and a well-loved self.

 

To feel magic,
stick your fingers in the dirt.
To craft magic,
plant a well-loved seed.
To see magic,
care for each sprout and watch it
grow into fruit--
the harvest of your work is always
a taste of real magic.

10/4/2023: I’ve harvested the last of this year’s tomatoes. All right, almost the last… since there are a few left in my Charlie Brown tomato tree.

 

Gift me
the smell of wet earth,
the chaos and strange of rain
untouched,
a devastating moment
alone.

 - for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #98: Earth, Air, Fire, Water.

Drinking October All Year Long

“You have no seasons in that small island of yours,” she says, with a smile that stinks of nurtured ignorance and mirth-rich malice. “That’s why you people flee to our lands, searching for more, wanting better, needing our green springs and the vivid oranges of our falls. So sad.” 

For a fiery moment, her nasty thoughts threaten to shroud my tongue. But I magic the flames into a knowing grin--I won’t let your rot poison my words--and I speak my truth, instead: “In my small island, autumn sleeps in the reds of the coffee cherry. We stir it awake with our fingers, berry by berry, until our baskets are full of warming cups. We drink October all year long. And so could you. But the taste buds of your spirit are dead, and you fail to notice. So very sad.”

photo by Café Gato-Mourisco, on Unsplash

 
photo by Ante Samarzija, on Unsplash

- one of my favorite things about October, while growing up in the Dominican Republic, was the beginning of the coffee harvest. Most of my relatives and some hired hands would come home, to my grandmother’s house, and pick coffee beans. The work was exhausting, but the songs, the food, and the company made it wonderful.

 - for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #97: October!