I don’t know God, but I know His tree
No pillar of salt, but might as well be
Planted in place, it cannot flee
but curls its toes in the loam that is home.
Tongue in Cheek – For D’verse
Published September 12, 2019 by Nan MykelMy dearest new Computer Mate
oh yes I’d like to have a date.
Since they paired us up, you must be
an educated man, and free.
I got your pix–which one is you?
And by the way, what do you do?
Describe myself, you say? Mein gott!
You really put me on the spot.
I’m a genuine human being,
a little nicer than I seem.
I brake for dogs and wreck for cats.
I like long dresses, gloves and hats,
though sometimes lounge around in jeans.
I joined church while in my teens
and let me tell you very straight
I drink no booze and smoke no pot.
Computer mate, I am no sot!
But if you’re Christian and you’re good
and make up to me like you should
I think that in a while we might
just make a pair that’s outta sight.
nm 1984
Back on Board with Mr. Crabby
Published September 12, 2019 by Nan MykelSorry I forgot to say I was going on vacation for a month, but I’m back now. A newer model computer was made available to me, but it intimidated me, and tho I wrote (and lost) mucho, blogging seemed beyond my ken. I returned, having left my phone and address book at Tybee Island (they were under the bed covers), and due to the use of different computers managed to lose my e-mail password, and so I am at loggerheads, if that’s the correct expression.
Earlier in the day prior to arriving at the beach, a horseshoe crab had washed up on shore, and surfers wrote in the sand, Rest in Peace, Mr. Crabby. They deposited his remains next to a garbage can on the outskirts of the beach, and when my granddaughter and I arrived and spied Mr. Crabby–well, I had to claim, de-gut, baptise him in clorox and then in rubbing alcohol, followed by drying him in the sunshine during the rest of the month. Fortuitously, I am much better at breathing through my mouth than all the rest of the family, so while they gagged I forged ahead, and by the time we returned to Ohio he was able to ride in my daughter’s car without her being crabby also. His current destination: my living room wall. He measures 12 x 27 inches (including his tail). Figuring out how to hang his heavy, fragile self will be a challenge. Suggestions welcome.
I also managed to carry home shells, Spanish moss, a couple of feathers, wheat grass, beach sand, plus a nice shark’s tooth which was found during the final five minutes of our beach vacation. One or more collages are anticipated.
Thoughts–This ‘n That
Published July 30, 2019 by Nan Mykel
Sorry I’ve lost a few sources. If you know, I’ll add:
Horses go where the rider is facing. Look at where you want to go, not where you don’t want to go.
Putting people in trances is easier than keeping them out.
The Witness of the Waking State is so constant a presence in our lives that it’s hard to stay aware of it…But it’s very important to learn to catch hold of and identify with the Witness of the Waking State because that changeless Witness is the One who makes it through the transition we call death….The detached spectator is the Witness of the Waking State. That Witness is who you actually are…Silently address yourself by your own name or he or she. It’s simple but it’s not easy…The “I”…is so full of itself and so used to starring in your show,,,,Getting that crucial distance from the emotional weather is what happens when we substitute the third-person pronoun or our own first name for that ever-captivating I.(I have a zerox page from the book on death by the author, a Quaker widow. If anyone recognizes it please let me know. I shouldn’t have let go of the book.).
It may be true that the unexamined life is not worth living but which is the best lens to use?
AWAITING COMPOST
Published July 29, 2019 by Nan Mykel
Profile: My current (former?) profile says I’m not through growing yet. I’ve re-thought that.
When after an uncomfortable (well, some of it) thousand-mile trip you finally arrive at the end of the line only to realize your ticket was for the wrong destination, what then? Is it your imagination that someone whispers “Gotcha!”?
Despite what the scientists predict, my first organ to go was my heart. It turned to stone. My last surgeon said, showing my daughter my extracted mitral valve, it was hard as a pebble from a brook. On to another, more current metaphor for me, while awaiting compost:
I am lying on a vast bed of empty metal ice maker cubes (remember, from the old refrigerators?), trying to be helpful I’m sure, someone puts such a tremendous pressure on me (steamroller?) that my body is now comprised of hundreds of cubes, almost like building blocks. Now I’m really ready for compost.
But wait just a f***ing minute! Building blocks! Like in the days of yore, before my post-partum depression at 83? Whee!
nm 2015
Grief and Holidays:What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family Reblog
Published July 28, 2019 by Nan Mykel
I know it is hard. I know you don’t truly understand how I feel. You can’t. It wasn’t your child.
I know I may look and act like I’m “better”. I know that you would love for things to be like they were: BEFORE. But they aren’t.
I know my grief interferes with your plans. I know it is uncomfortable to make changes in traditions we have observed for years. But I can’t help it. I didn’t ask for this to be my life.
I know that every year I seem to need something different. I know that’s confusing and may be frustrating. But I’m working this out as I go. I didn’t get a “how to” manual when I buried my son. It’s new for me every year too.
So I’m trying to make it easier on all of…
View original post 672 more words
Imprisoned
Published July 28, 2019 by Nan Mykel
Touch the little bugs in the garden
and they will roll into tight balls.
The possum plays dead to the world,
and the turtle hides inside his shell.
And the man? Somebody is
in need of help, but he sits
there daring you to help,
a tough guy, inmate, con–
you name it.
His Mama’s baby boy. But he
don’t need no help. Just sits
there indifferent, on his bunk.
Tough guy. All alone
in the crowded dorm. His
Mama’s baby boy. Tough
turtle doing troubled time.
nm 1986
The Jet Snake= A Re-blog from Oran’s Well
Published July 28, 2019 by Nan MykelA marvelous accomplishment! The metaphors, the energy, the information and the perfect visual image. I’m re-blogging. Thank you for your knowledge, talent and energy.
New real. Rougher deal. The bent snake
with his awful coils jet-streams this climate roil.
Eighty nine degrees in Alaska. Denver snowing.
Fifty tornadoes hammering the Midwest..
The Missouri River cresting at 30 feet.
A hundred one degrees in Atlanta. And the
summer hasn’t even started—no Cat 5
hurricanes yet punch Miami’s lights out,
no wildfires tindering the mountains West.
Heat the world by one degree of C
and you get this battered, pissed-off snake.
We’ll double the increase in fifteen years,
treble it in fifty: And the coils will swell
to a dragon might needing no occasion
for belching hell’s cross-country flight.
Imagine the coming reigns of fire and flood
when air crashes through curved rapids.
When thrashing becomes the daily fraught
what wastelands will our hours become,
sanding bags against witched tides too tall.
What can love be in a digesting age,
when the snake devours us entire?
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What Do You Think?
Published July 27, 2019 by Nan MykelAlthough on July 12, 2019, at the bottom of the page on which “An ACOA’s Confession” appeared, I wrote:
“While continuing to try to continue organizing “my stuff” I came across a passel of earlier poems. I don’t know which have made their appearance in this blog and/or d’Verse, but I just felt like giving them a run-through again. One a Day takes the —what was it?—away. Since I love my Media Library, I think I’ll add a random pix, also. (This must be what happens when you start getting old.)”
I decided this in part because my site has no stability–anything at all could be in the blog (and usually is). So I decided that for a while at least (until the well runs dry) I could start including a different poem a day-either from my slush pile or maybe newborn. Thing is, I haven’t been sharing the date written, which may cause someone to think I’m writing and publishing a new poem a day.
Now I feel kinda guilty about it. What do you think? Am I misleading readers and should I include the date originally written? I’d appreciate some feedback.
OLD SOLDIER
Published July 27, 2019 by Nan Mykel
He knew he was crochety.
He’d forgotten how to love.
His cane held him upright and
allowed him to kick at stones
along the winding path home.
He wanted for nothing but
stones to kick and maybe a
bone to pick once he arrived.
Being crochety was safe.
He knew it and they knew it,
and at night after supper
he could be found down
in his old soldier’s fox hole.
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