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.
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.
“Where Have all the Flowers Gone?”
crushed in a Ukraine field.
Early budding heads now
suckle in a sea of mud.
Eighty children, burnished, bled
in a meadow. Their little leaves now shed
burnt away by the madness
of man and war…gone…
all gone away.
(of the 298 aboard Malaysia Airlines, 80 were children)
“Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”
Our land is thick with thistle and with thorn
dead bodies lace the meadow newly stripped.
The air now wracked with twisted metal born
and steaming clods upon the blackness slip.
So crush`ed is the early budding heads
who suckle now among a sea of mud.
Men plunge, protected through their field of dread;
grab boxes painted orange in death’s flood.
The blossoms in the meadow burnt away
each leaf has flown and hurried from our view.
The madness we call war has had its sway.
Burnt offering, we offer our excuse.
But flowers will not listen to our hurl.
They gasp for air in other, better worlds.
“Back Seat Baby”
It was the perfect day; sun-shiny bright.
My baby in his car seat takes a nap.
Our day is glowing; not a cloud in sight.
The traffic on the interstate, a snap.
I park and in the elevator dream
of visions: his first birthday party planned.
My morning rushes short or so it seems.
Lunch quickly comes and then a meeting manned.
The day sped on in one quick noisy leap.
The elevator’s homeward clunk the same.
My car key slides to chambers it will keep
as I behold the sight, tears blind my shame.
A terror like ten thousand dying hearts
and not a sound did Jimmy make to part.
(This poem prompted by a news story. So many forgotten babies found dead in the backseat of a hot car! Tip: put your cell phone in the back seat with the baby as you go to work.)
My sense of yesterday now flown away
by grace but there’s a tinge of memory.
I felt her need to leave; she would not stay.
Enraged, her private hatred now set free,
she spiraled out the door with no goodbye.
Her energy, combustible with sparks.
Her feet did leave my door without a sigh.
Two sisters, now divided in their hearts.
Oh, evil is the black hole of device
that punishes the soul and brings such shame;
that warps the mind and turns free will to ice;
the unforgiven buried with the pain.
That memory of hate, my conscience stalks
as never looking back, she turns and walks.
I am held in the comfort of your hands, softly, as the small, broken wings of a bird.
No cooing is heard as token words cannot fill my breathless need. Your caress
soothes murmurings of a grieving heart as leaf brushes leaf.
Photo by Jacqueline Casey.
“The Love Affair”
This man has had his way, deluded me.
My late Casino visit, once espied
Jack’s cold, one eye with little sympathy
as when I draw a two and three, then sigh.
His siren song lures all with tens of tens.
Naïve`te! A roller-coaster ride
addicted to his many shills and sins.
He’ll bust my spirit when low blows abide.
Love is a mountain high or pit! Like life,
may be a deck destructive to your pride.
May bring the brightest to his knees in strife
as all are Counters in the dealer’s sight.
Oh, dark the day I fell in love with Jack.
He’s taken me aback; my heart_ransacked!