Hour Twelve: Constraints

Ah, the magnificence of time for the lifting of constraints.

Indeed, years accelerate as shadows grow longer—baring intentions.

Veils disappear replaced with honest, experiential wisdom.

Corralled no more within clocks and customs,

stilted thoughts are crushed with action deeds.

Quilted awkwardness lays bare to colored vibrancy.

Certainly, nervous nieces and nephews roll their eyes

when forthrightness overcomes restraints tethered too long.

Yes, lucky souls are the ones who come to understand

the triteness of viscous pedagogy,

and are able to break through to creativeness—

forward thought, sassy speech, and the act of doing.

 

Hour Eleven: Farmers Market Sounds

The buzz of the local farmers market resonates closer with every step,

music and singing tickle my ears.

Young girls on ukuleles, a string-band stomping in ballad,

street performers juggling—delighting the young families slurping up ice cream,

toasted cinnamon almonds, and Bavarian pretzels.

Fresh scents of basil, dill, cilantro, lavender float around the square…

and tomatoes, melons, potatoes, zucchini, squash, cucumbers abound.

I stand still, eyes closed, letting a fiddle take me away.

 

 

Hour Ten: Colors

the teacher asks
a direct question—
her face

the sun-bleached clam shell
inspected by a gull—
low tide

sleepless—
the nightlight
is burned out

listening to
Billie Holiday again—
candle drips

he tells us
about his auctioned house—
rubbing my eyes

Hour Nine: Little Ben

Between our porch railing lives little Ben.

His web bridges two rod-iron spokes bringing in gnats and flees.

Little Ben is a patient hunter—so tiny but so spry.

Each night, as I sit in my porch chair sipping a sunset beverage,

watching the lava glow over the horizon, little Ben is spotted

gliding over the orange flow—with ease—no fear at all.

My little Ben, crawling over the crimson ball—

a radiant silhouette.

 

Hour Eight: Burrito

This is a “Golden Shovel”. My line is the first from Robert Louis Stevenson’s My Shadow,”I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me.”

it was just the other day when I

walked into town with a craving to have

a big burly burrito, yes a

super charged El grande. Not a little

one. One so big its shadow

would need a doggie bag. Yes, that

enormous. And what goes

inside? Well, a lot of guacamole right in

the center. And

what to top it with? The most out-

landish pico de gallo with

jalapenos and that’s it for little old me.

 

Hour Seven: Ourstory

history met herstory and became ourstory

interdependence grown from solitude made solid

merging of souls…

past—pain… purified

restrain—resist… related

emulsify—explode… excellence

ourstory today

not yesturday, not tomorrow

no past, no future

just today

ourstory

Hour Six: Swill

I have cracked elbows and tattered toes

my mind is warped and frayed

my doctor says I overdose

I laugh but should have prayed

 

My daughter says “No midnight snack!”

The wine I drink is swill

I’m waiting for a heart attack

I’m sure I have no will

Hour Five: Home

She steps off the school bus, walks into the woods, climbs a tree, opens a book.

Her two older sisters will not be coming home for a while.

Her mother and father until after that.

An empty house is not a home.

The branches of the tree hold no fear.

She teaches her dolls the ABC’s, reads to them—they listen well.

A Doctor of Education, she teaches, now, at the University—

comes home to me and to her two fur-children.

Hour Four: Moth

A moth flits its way around the living room landing on a painting by the large window.

The watercolor includes an old glass bottle—like the ones Coca-Cola makes—

which sits on a brown table with a wooden cooking spoon, and there is a tall white candle in a silver holder.

The painting was done by one of my favorite local artist’s, a real character who I enjoy chatting with.

This small moth has chosen to rest right at the top of the candle—near the wick.

“Ha! lucky for the moth, the candle is not lit” I think.

Just then, our black cat leaps onto the back of my recliner, and in full extension with her left paw

plucks the moth off the candle, and gobbles it down in one swallow.

I get up, walk over and straighten out the painting,

careful not to disturb our black cat licking her chops.

 

Hour Three: Bon

“there’s a sale on grill pans, honey”, she says

“we have two pans already”, I reply

“those aren’t for grilling. Costco has a special if we join—free paper towels, and pizza”, she says

“we’ll need a larger closet and freezer”, I reply

she smiles and begins paging through the new IKEA catalog

I look out the window—watch a crow balance a piece of bread on the crest of the neighbor’s roof