The Music Maker

 

“The Music Maker”

He played her like an old, worn tambourine;
a frightful, dull man’s musicale.
The thunder from her drum a shallow scene;
a misty, seismic moment from his gal.
The music not enhanced by their dog, Sal
who also entered her embittered howl.
The house reverberates; the neighbors pale
as door and windows rattle from her glance;
as lovely Lynn flew off her Richter Scale.

Hadron Collider-event

The Messenger

I doubt not God’s my messenger and oft
I see him in the whirling colors there.
His message is a gentle love, aloft
and all his voice remembered everywhere.

He is the author of the spider’s way
whose mystic journey often spins astray
unless that force and guide is heard.
He is our stamen stretching for the sun;
He is the unknown spark hid in hadrons.

 stamen

“Sarcasm”


Proud, strutting peacock, bilious scream.  Your noisy scene affronts my ears; then my brain. If chatter your device for breaking ice,  then your attempt for cool now goes astray.  Sarcastic jester, fool upon your stage. As partner in your play,  I’ve  disengaged.

Photo Credit: Made Hery Santosapeacock

“The Hoarders”

 

We’re tripping at the thrift store before lunch.

Compulsion is a noisy swarm of geese.

We wear the surgeon’s mask to stop the dust.

We’re rescue angels wearing pale, pink gloves.

A Louis Vuitton leather purse; a gown

for fifty cents.  An old Mark Twain is found.

A ghostly pall hangs over all debris;

their carted carcass soon to burning hell.

We’re mourning hoarders called to love again.IMG_000344_edited-2photo:Michael Bartlett

“The Greeting”

Wordle #193 (sign,arrival, scar, stray, ingest, alone, silent, holy, plain, pale, laughing, chime)

“The Greeting”

Another HOLY day he sits ALONE
As SIGN of God’s ARRIVAL CHIMES the door.
His SCARRED, STRAY heart LAUGHING at the love
he will INGEST: a pat upon his PLAIN and simple head.
He waits, PALE and SILENT…

tail wagging.

“The Game”

 “The Game”

Faint amber glow remains to haunt
their fiery past.
Her slumber stirs.  His candle cast
and with its burn, her snuffer there again to taunt
but not to trim his light.
His wick still wild with passion’s flight.
dreams emboldened; reckless delight.

nightmare-300x245Painting by Henry Fuseli (1741-1825)

“Sahara”

Photo Gallery WallpaperPhoto: National Geographic

“Sahara”

The setting sun now breaks my drifting dream
and threads that needle to my passion’s flight
resplendent in its dignity, our scene
compels imagination with delight.

The fading sun now cools to lighter air
and calm, our camels rock the dusty swells.
A steamy haze along horizon’s flare
where desert’s dying colors cannot dwell.

Sahara haze, mysterious and stark.
Intrigued, I hasten to his silken tent.
I hurry to my soul in evenings dark.
We coast in caravans of eons spent.

Slow burn and then the quickened, bold desire
as when Sahara sands alight with fire.

 

“Growing Old”

<img src=”http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/moonshine.png”>

“Growing Old”

I drive Carol to work this am. She surprises me with:

“If I have a ride home tonight with Ron, you will not hear from me. If I need a ride , I will call you. Ya got that, Mom?”

No, I don’t “get it” but say nothing. When will I know if she needs a ride home?

I am eighty and some days I feel like I am drifting toward the edge of Alzheimer’s. Not because of my age, but because of my expectations of others. And yes, this type of proposal from her bothers and confuses me. Things are left hanging, disturbing my sense of balance.

Carol says it is because I am a person bent on arranging everyone’s life. She states I am controlling and domineering.  All I really want to know is does she need a ride home or does she not? I like advance notice and plan my day around such things.
Do I cook for one or two ? We live as two, old bachelors and if she is not here for dinner , I can plan “simple”. “Simple” means no need to go to grocery and pick up an extra “wha-cha-ma-call-it”. What is it I must not forget the next time I shop? I write it down on a piece of paper and put it…?

I like order. I clean out my messy purse and use a silky zipper bag to store important id cards in my larger purse.   A few days later I prepare to shop and that zipper bag is gone! Vanished! It is nowhere in my larger purse nor my living quarters. I search my car, open the door and find the silky devil has slipped out of purse and hidden between the door and driver seat.

Lucky angels watch over me. I leave my favorite Walmart after dark one evening. Home, with my groceries piled high on the kitchen table, I realize my purse is still in the metal shopping basket in their parking lot!

There my purse sits, orphaned and forlorn. People pass the small, black object. In the dark, they assume it is a bit of trash and pass up all that cash and ID.  I hurry back, stealthily pull into the same empty space and there the purse sits exactly where I left her 30 minutes ago! I have pulled off a stupendous heist…I have won the Lottery! It is a victorious feeling!

The phone just rang. All is in balance again. Carol says she needs a ride home tonight. I can handle that. I “get it”. I am a very old, but lucky person.

December Thoughts

jacquelinecaseypoetry.com

carol baby (2)

“The Christmas Gift”

Your steps quicken
as memories awaken
as you journey home
as you hurry home
remembering the lighting of that face!
There’s no sweeter place
no finer gift
glowing
than your child’s
shining eyes.

Photo Source:  my daughter, 1957

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