Tongue in Cheek – For D’verse

My 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

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Back on Board with Mr. Crabby

Sorry 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.

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Thoughts–This ‘n That

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?

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AWAITING COMPOST

 

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

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Grief and Holidays:What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family Reblog

thelifeididntchoose

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…

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Imprisoned

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

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The Jet Snake= A Re-blog from Oran’s Well

A 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.

Oran's Well

sky serpents

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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