when walking,
carpet/
rice/
pebbles/trees/roots/
leaves/limbs/body/
grasses/mud/ground/
dirt/beetles/ants/worms/
are all, directly,
from you treated.
musings & scribbles
“I didn’t want to be 77.” – Grandma
i try to sabotage
everything
so you,
perhaps,
may see
all i want
is you
to be with me.
blades of the fan
like lights, dashes
on a highway, speed
by on this edge-tipped
cd, “plea for peace:
take action,” and
slightly over
the insurance,
all-state, card
red-striped, white.
i’m here
you’re there
it’s not distance,
just a stare–
you see?
you see?
not the step kind,
but i
might as well
to see
you
‘re there and i’m
here.
there is little difference between an elected politician and an election politician, save a sense of urgency.
The triumph of a writer is to look back and see the world as changed, not because of them, but because of what they’ve done.
“I have to get up
and move around. If I sit, I’ll
get up and go Psshhoo.”
Grandma gets up,
standing,
wobbles
in her small frame
and catches herself
on the frame of the door,
walks toward the counter,
grabbing
chairs, one
at a time along her way,
to see the screendoor,
the damage done, and
I feel she fell
some time earlier,
is recovering,
and she does not want
to give in or give up,
even if it means she’s
really giving herself
a chance, though
she knows if she does,
she seems weak,
even if she is
the truly
strongest woman
I’ve ever met
and she doesn’t
even know she is
yet
I cannot tell her
for she’ll just
swear and sit and say,
“No, no, no– Honestly,
no.”
such sweet apron of the sky,
these clouds, wand’ring by,
she sits
in a blue-mid, red-tipped,
“pansies,” on the chest shirt,
half-crying, half-CRYing
over the Mother, her daughter,
being so paternal, a knack
for the dramatic, and seeing
my confusion, a light introduction
of when she was the mother, her
Mother the child, grown, she
smiles, recalling the freedom, hers.