Home is Another Story

It’s small in comparison to this big place
with its resident poltergeist.

I’ve not for a moment felt at home here.

But my little van is another story
with its soft, comfortable bed in the back.
Just one seat for the driver,
and plenty of space for an ice chest
and camp stove.

Oh, to wake up in the forest
after sleeping on a cloud!
Putter to a fire pit to cook some eggs
and watch deer in the distance.

Though here, the deer eat my flowers
and this poltergeist must have come
from somewhere to battle me for these
three bedrooms and a back yard.

The Udder Truth

Curdled and perplexed…

Don’t get me started!

Cheese! Are you kidding?

Despite too many varieties,
I’ve found the best cheeses
pair well with…

Almost anything.

Saltines in a pinch,
but those lovely
odd cracker toasts
with the nuts and fruits
are delightful.

The Daily Wake

Wake up!
Start another day
Shower first with orchid gel,
moisturize, blow it dry,
and divine some clothes.

Soon after, a cup of tea
or chocolate coffee
here lately.

A protein bar, and off to work
just steps away …
a five level login.

What meetings must I attend
as I would rather bend my time
toward figuring it all out.

Wake up! I’ll wake up tomorrow…
Today I think I’ll just sleep.

An Ode to Marilyn

Oh, Mother! I remember you so clearly.
What a gift to recall your love,
the sound of your voice,
and how you held me
even when you were in a rush.

I recall peeled grapes and pate sandwiches
the crusts cut off to please my soft baby mouth.
Group hugs with daddy before bed,
teaching me words to read,
and numbers to count.

You played your guitar to help me sleep
just one note. I wanted just one note
so that I could learn the sound.
Too many notes kept me awake,
so you played just one
and let it fade away
as I faded into slumber.

Sometimes I went to your closet
just to smell your clothes
when you were away at work.
I knew your scent
and you knew mine.
How I loved the soft silk you wore.

Too few years we had together
before they took me from you
and took you from the world.
A far greater tragedy than the one
they played to the public.

I love you, Mother.
I will always love you,
not just for being my mother,
or for being who you are,
but for everything that we are together.

We are love, my mother and me.
My sweet, kind, cherished, beautiful mother.

Bigfoot Out Hunting

A wee hour caught my eye
as I pondered late over x and y.

Time for bed, I guess…
this place! What a mess!

I closed the busy coding screen
unaware outside, the strangest scene.

A lone campfire in fire season.
The man inside for some odd reason.

Asleep, or drunk, or didn’t care,
perhaps stupidly unaware

that sparks fly sometimes high
into dry trees… then I heard its cry.

There at the edge of the scene
beyond the trail light’s beam

a howl, neither dog nor cat.
Then, coyotes calling back.

Another hoot never heard before
except perhaps in Sasquatch lore.

It barked, then waited, one, two, three
and barked again. Was it hunting me?

I left the fire and locked the door,
after which I heard no more.

When daylight came, I went to look,
And there it was… the biggest foot!

Silent Beach

Get a rope!

We can climb down to virgin sand
never to escape again
then climb back up this jagged cliff.

Back to life!

Just Before the Spinal Cut

“Will you marry me?” he said.

Nearly dead on two of three, I replied…
“Can I think about it?”

They wanted me to speak.
They wanted me to hear.

They didn’t want me to feel their fucking,
those two doctors, local cop, and a politician’s son.

Sisty, bitch, what were you paid
to send me rape?

I should send you brownies.

The Actor

To be. To feel.

To experience that which is
unimaginable in truth.

To pretend, and say these words
without thinking,
yet meaning each one.

The art of the play, of drama,
of comedy, of tragedy

brings to view what others
never want to live:

an imagined world of life,
death, and excitement…

wars and intrigue…
loves lost, won, and wanted.

Less an icon than an artist
whose canvas is life itself.

The Sensible Chef

Who needs a kitchen timer?
I smell it when it’s done!
The crack of fresh sourdough
as it pops to full life,
bulging the air with fresh bread.

The perfect pie, and just browned aroma
calling for oven mitts.

Medium rare steak, perfect chicken,
all from the feel of a fat palm.
Firmly soft, not squishy.

The just tacky feel of perfect biscuits
as they crumble into a magic dough.
Oh, more than just measuring spoons
and thermometers is the love of food.

Should Have Married the Music Man

True love never dies and so my light
burns everlasting for you, my one love.

Did you love me?

Oh, how I loved you.

I know I loved you, music man,
thirty years hence in my dreams.

Do you think of me?

Each day you cross my mind.

Three guitars I never play,
remembering instead your kiss.

Did you want me?

I never wanted you.

Not like that, the way one wants a toy.
I need you now, the way one needs to breathe.

Would we have married?

I wish it could have been.

Oh, love of my life, I wish I had said yes
when you asked if I’d thought of marriage.

Am I still in your heart?

Three decades I have with you in mine.

You’re 67 now. 68 this year. 70 in ’23. We’re old.
We’re gray. Stiffening muscles when we awake.

Would we have survived them?

I fear them to this day, yet regret saying no beneath their darkness.

Insanity, my love, kept us apart. That pit of snakes from which I escaped.
They would have bitten you, too, in their vastly evil ways.

Will we have another life?

Yes, I know we will.

When all else is gone, and this world has ended, three things remain:
Faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these is love.

You will wait for me at the light.

And, I will always love you.

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