Petru tells me I should apologize to my good friend D’Verse for suspecting them of cruelty to 83-year olds. It’s true I’ve hit the skids, and somehow a miracle subsequently admitted me to Thursday’s Open Link Night, for which I thank them and apologize. (I’d already taken down my Dark comments.)
Hugs
My last child was born in 1971, a Down Syndrome child with a terminal (at that time) mitral heart defect. Trying to make sense of this unexpected event which was traumatic to me (for years I couldn’t mention it publicly without crying), I sought out a psychic reading in an attempt to make it fit into my experience of the world. I just came across something I wrote about the reading, written three years later:
My aura is muddy with fear
the psychic said, three years ago,
as I sat hesitant before him,
searching out dim forces of my destiny.
A two-fold karmic mission
lies in wait for me, he said.
Mine to scale the heights of consciousness
and mine to loosen passive bonds.
Through action shall I free the captive
Soul of eons whose receptive mold has
fashioned the aura which I wear,
passive becoming active, opening up
my third eye and our third world
in a consciousness both higher and raised.
Today is Monday, June 30, 1975 AD.
Three years hence where shall I be?*
__________
The psychic reader was an official minister in his other role, and when my father subsequently died I asked if he would conduct the funeral service and include a “life reading” for him, so I could better understand why my father lived the life he had.
It was clear the psychic/minister was scandalized at the suggestion he bring his psychic activities into the church in a funeral. I wondered how he put it all together in his head, or rather why he didn’t.
I reckon I’m going to have to work on freeing my captive soul the next time round.
(If nothing else works, a psychic reading can be briefly useful).
I saw a Neanderthal in a pinafore…
Twice or more a year or so
my nose gets outta joint–
“The Roly Poly Poet”–I get no further
than that, you see, after so grand a title:
dead ends.
You poets out there know I’m sure
how sneaky words can pose a lure
in order to make you think
you’re on the very brink…
But some poems are dead ends,
never see the light of joyful welcome.
Sigh. We know it’s we who have
failed them.
Other poems only lie on the dock
smelling fishy,,,
They do it about twice a year now, as I said,
my words, they want to play with me.
They jump into the dirt and roll, and
expect me to crawl in the mud after them–
which I do. If I say thunder rattled
the window pane where does your mind
go next? I wrote a depressed poem called
“Down in the Mouth” and it was so bad
I wrote “Lighten Up,” both blessedly missing
from this diatribe.
“For shame, Alphonse,”
was my response when he suggested
a rendezvous–just we two. I got mad,
then sad, for though he was my sister’s
beau I always thought him cute, you know?
A spear point under an oak,
shark teeth in the roiling beach sand;
shooting stars spied from my porch cot;
fossil trilobites in my hand;
lightening bolts found underfoot
and potshards after a rain.
while my muse reckons
the irregular fringe of time.
If we live long enough
it’s gonna be rough.
Tell-tale signs of age
spoken off the cuff
betray us and oh
how long and how sad
will it get to be
before…until…we
write bad verse, yet don’t hesitate
to remember to meditate
on what’s gone before and what
lies ahead instead?
Hey nonny nonny,
honey, if it’s not funny
why do we laugh at
our forget-me-nots?
When will we touch base
and head for home?
Not funny, dammit,
unless you’re like me–
easier to laugh
than it is to pee.
Ha ha got you there.
You expected to “cry.”
I know poor taste
when e’er I try
and will until my
looney runs dry.
Ouch! Tell me I
didn’t write this…
Life’s too short
Tooth’s too long
Horses snort
Answer’s wrong
Eyes too bright
Pool’s too deep
Bra’s too tight
He’s too cheap
Sky’s too high
Feet too smelly
Words can lie
Too tight belly
Stream beds trickle
Chewing gum sticks
I’m in a pickle
Up to old tricks.
Lost my keys
This won’t do
Down on my knees
Should get two.
Don’t say pome
Only a verse
Come on home
Could be worse.
1899. John Brown. (USPD.pub.date, artist life/COmmons.wikimedia.org)
I CAN’T Play hopscotch any more Nor skate across an icy floor. I know headstands would break my neck I drove my car and caused a wreck.
It’s hard to write a funny verse ‘Specially when you’re glum and terse. I wonder if I’ll ever see a poem sadder than my knee.
Oh I know it could be worse– I could have Trumpkin as my nurse, Pointing at me and saying he Would never make a pass at me.
BUT Now I don’t have to clean my plate Or remember to stand up straight Oh what fun to say shit and damn while chasing Mary’s little lamb.
Yet no one tucks me in at night or hugs me as my mother might. Home made peach ice cream’s the best I’d not swap it for all the rest.
I STILL KNOW Little Orphan Annie can say “Watch out for the Goblins today. They’re bigger than ever and terribly clever–”
Citizens United foretold The capitalist manifold That can squeeze you to death, Enjoying your last breath.
I guess there’s a Devil after all. Call him a Goblin, you say? But the evil’s outrageous, And even contagious!
GOOD LUCK For the next century– I’m outta here.
JUST JOKING Though not very funny, I guess. The whole thing’s a horrible mess. Oh I’m moved now to barf, Do watch out for the scarf!
NEXT SCENE Maybe it’ll be better after my next round trip down home. I’ll be pushing up sod Second only to God.
You watch; I’ll be back.
THE SCRUBWOMAN
She’s on her knees, but not to pray
Trying to scrub the stains away
While knowing that they’re on to stay
“Undoing” ‘s the term used today.
Today I stopped to see my shrink.
He said, “Well, what do you think?”
I said, “You mean how do I feel?”
“O Yeah, yeah, but what is the deal?”
“I’m losing it, and that’s no fun.”
“Life is no bowl of cherries, hon.”
“I didn’t think it was, but it’s
overflowing with all the pits.”
“You should think Happy Happy.”
“O that is so crappy, crappy!”
“Don’t let me rain on your parade!”
“I can’t believe what you just said!”
“I know it’s mighty bad out there.”
“Well you look comfy in your chair!”
“I am, and you should be too.”
“How can I when I am so blue?
How much do I have to pay to you
for this therapeutic hour or two?”
“S & H green stamps will be fine.
What was it that you had in mind?”
“I’m out of stamps but hope you’ll take
a cherry cheesecake that I’ll make.”
“You’ll bring it next time that you come?”
“Maybe we can both enjoy some.”
Sigh. “Goodbye.”
Today I could talk straight through until I die and not tell you half my thoughts, history and fellow travelers. None great but I was there and lived it all. So much, all the time. Little things, big feelings–I am an Indian mound full of artifacts, a wrapped present on Christmas morning, full of surprises, not all good. These atypical thoughts will leave me, but here they are for you to see, caught on my flypaper.
Moon casts her shadows
A plop sounds in the old creek
Night birds croon their songs
And I sleep…
Image:Ruth Scribbles.com
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