The metronome leads home

Ah-wakening

Water drip-drops from the roof-top

onto the plastic lid of the empty blue recycle bin

It is not raining-anymore.

While lying there, transported,

the drops dripping were tick tocks

of the clock overhead in my grandfathers den

As I lie there, my hearts mouths the waters

falling

back in sleep, absorbed in one wet second

There is no difference between

Now and Then

Some things are worth repeating

time and time again;

rain, reminiscing in rain again

Sleep

And

Ah wakening. 

Painting by Nicolas Régnier (1588/1591–1667) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sticks and stones spell...

That name I was given was a tool
to taunt my grandfather-
I was not told-
how to use.
He loved me best, more than his own.
And I have wrestled with its odd shape
and sharp turns on my tongue.

Walked on past when people stumble over it
and twist it to suit their native mouths
translation is just a place to hold things,
this placeholder for me is only temporary...

Life's a bloom until you become part of the potpourri,
which is why the dry blooms last longer.
I would be of the waxflower variety,
piney and if this name a color
it must be yellow-although it sounds more like
an oboe, not a cello.

If you could only touch me, I'd be satin-
sometimes
velvet.
My name would grow like a city, Odessa
with more steps.
This misshapen label matches me
even though I know contradictory;
looks like summer, feels like snow.
And so not the tool I thought I wanted
yet when fashioned to fit precisely
the only one that could work on me.

I now know this tool was used

to pry my grandfathers' irritation open

every time he picked it up

and held it tight.

He loved me best.

Its protrusions also make my mouth bleed.

And I have casually passed by when others

grimace and contort it by twisting

their own cherry knot tying tongue.

It is just a name,

to hold me 

in his passing voice 

temporarily

It fits.

Photo by Ohannes Kurkdjian [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Victum de forte

Shadowed by the light that blinds me,

           Purple aura glows from head to toe,

I rue this Infinity

           For my limited role.

In the whirlwinds of change

           I face the gale, often fail,

Hidden behind circumstance,

           My body bruised, I break down-

Only to moor in the cove of Covetousness.

             Sharing in the commonwealth of golden sunsets

Still, those ropes of regret, tangled and taut

              Hold fast under threat.

Now I see, reflected in tranquility

              Of calm waters-grandaughters-

Cutting this rope, intrepidly, victoriously 

               Is my only strand of Hope.

(This poem was inspired by the poem Invictus, written by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) which was one of my grandfathers favorite poems and was included in his memorial, the original poem & audio is linked and follows below)

Invictus 
by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


Image By Sidney Sime [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, The Ship of Yoharneth, (1911).

Going along with Grandpa

I liked it when we walked around the block,
talked shop, nothin' doin', smelling grass in the sunshine.

You told me silly rhymes, fishing for my giggles,
which grew like weeds, like me, you said, a daisy.

That song you sang about the starving old lady, now seems sad,
she had 49 kids...Instead, it made my mouth melt for gingerbread.

And I still sing that stinkin' Navy song, that is even more racially wrong
about a girl from Yokohama then along came a Joe asking 'bout Tokyo.

(I rolled my eyes, I despised it,
but I memorized it, just a bit)

Your tassle-toed loafer swagger, in your plaid pants pleated a la putting pose.
The flagstick handle for a fuschia shirt on fire, your tongue pinned to cheek.

Dewy Sunday mornings were the best you said, when people pray
I caught you looking up too. It wasn't for the ball, after all.

Sometimes I can still hear your pocket change jangling and muffled
against your copper chain bracelet, I hear the handcuffs of ghosts.

After all this time I thought you were just entertaining me,
showing me to build fractals, but you were really gardening, planting seeds
                                                                      growing the chance of epiphany.