Glympses

In mid tumble it swayed sideways. It looked like a butterfly, but there betrayal came in the landing. A falling yellow leaf is what it was. But, for a moment, it was pure joy to watch. At least I could see it. It’s better than chasing a memory that remains illusive. One that I still haven’t been able to bring into full focus.

Now, through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings..I listen closely. Along with the voice were melancholy strains from a horn played by the likes of Miles or Coletrane.

I should know this, I do know this. I close my eyes and surf the notes, willing and carefree. It’s laced with a hint of the blues. Maybe not remembering this title is a gift. Because I would just play it over, and over again, to what end?

https://dversepoets.com/2022/08/18/open-link-live-322-august-edition/

Pat

8/19/22

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—
–by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., from The Chambered Nautilus.

This line is to be incorporated into a piece of prose over at dVerse Poets Pub. The deadline to submit to the prompt has come and gone. But I’m now posting it to OLN ( open link night) To check out what’s going on over there go to the link above. A good weekend to all.

Another One!!

Another one! We are, yet again, undone. The only thing that seems to come out of these tragedies are the usual talking heads pretentiously wallowing in their fifteen minutes of fame.

The hands deep in their pockets also move the trap between their beady little eyes as they mouth platitudes and lamentations in the form of thoughts and prayers. All of which has become white noise because power takes precedent.

So, we continue to live under sinister skies raining death with nowhere to hide. Hoards of lost souls that will never again see morning. They  will never again set eyes on arcs of grass bejeweled by dew reflecting twilight. 

It is up to us to erase the platitudes and become a part of the solution. The way we do this is with our vote! These are the things they don’t tell us often enough.

Vote!

Pat

6/06/2022

For dVerse Poets Pub being hosted by Msjadeli where the topic is “How many will it take” as it relates to gun violence and mass shootings. To participate or just read go here.

Grit

Ida is an old soul and the fiercest person I know. She was blessed with an abundance of that ‘no nonsense and why the hell not’, attitude.

Conversations this time had awakened deep feelings.

What must it be like going somewhere, and not know that feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb. Or, not having to endure the stares and the under- their- breaths mutterings.

Such feelings were never really shared out loud, they didn’t have to. They knew, being in the skin they were in. Ida too, had experienced this. On one occasion she was heard to say,

‘I didn’t know I was black till I came to America’. She would not elaborate.

But this too she tackled this with her attitude of “no, I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife*.” This attitude had served her well; and serves her still.

Pat
7/20/21

*Zora Neale Hurston

Fathers Day

“We were talking a while ago” , her eyes searched my face.

“About papa”, I said. She had asked me where he was. I said he wasn’t here just now.

“Yes”, she nodded. and smiled, her chain of thought had reconnected.

“I loved him so much” , she said. “He was always in my corner. He would fight for me”.

Those words had never crossed her lips before. At least, never in my presence.

“I’ve never heard you say that before”, I said. “You’ve only always talked about what a pain in the ass he was” I said, as those words left me, it felt like a reflex action.

“You both were a pain in the ass to each other”, I quickly interjected. as a correction. I am shocked to hear there was love there.

“He did tell me that he loved you” , she seemed as surprised to hear it, just as I was way back when he said it.

In all the years I’ve been on this earth, all I’ve ever seen between these two was fighting. At times, it felt like they were fighting to the death. In my young mind I wondered what would happen to me and my sisters and brother if one of them killed the other.

Now here she sits, in a confused state laced with moments of clarity, professing her love for my father who no longer among the living. I didn’t have the heart to tell her this earlier, today of all days. It was Fathers Day. And she was treading the waters of unfinished business.

Pat
6/20/21

Awry!!

the world is upside down

what the hell is going on

your drawers is showing

your junk is exposed

nobody wants to see that part of you

put your junk back under cover

what makes your shit more important than everybody elses

what makes your cockeyed opinion more important than everybody elses

everybody has those

so stop doing crazy shit trying to put yours front and center

and get over yourself!!!!

Pat R

10/14/20

“I Love You”s

img_20200301_151305She is not one to say it often. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe she doesn’t know how, never learned how. Maybe she’s just not good at it.

My mom has been on her own, for the most part since she was thirteen. Her mom died one morning as she was readying her daughters for school.
I’m thinking since then, she has had issues with god / creator for letting such a catastrope befall her and her younger sister.

Some things trickle down, whether it was meant to or not.

I am no good at love. Most times leave me feeling like a lunatic, if not acting like one.

But, I keep an open heart. Even so, “I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.” I guess in a cock-eyed sorta of way, I believe in love.

Pat R

3/17/20

Over at dVerse Poets Pub the prompt is to write prose (keeping it tight at no more than 144 words) and to include the line below:-
“I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.”

https://dversepoets.com/2020/03/16/prosery-surprised-or-not/

Thick Skull

Mother Bea sits in her wooden rocking chair on the rickety varandah. She is placed there every morning. She does not walk. She must be over 80 years old. Even her kids were old. When you are little, everybody is old! I watch her as she watches the daily interactions of the children in the yard. She would make one word prouncements on the goings-on.
Cry baby. Smart. Determined. Thick skull. I often wondered how she arrived at these critiques from such a distance. And more often, just who she was talking about!

at times it’s futile
figuring out which spirit
whisper the loudest
in their attempts to guide me –
probably pointless, thick skull!

For Colleen’s Weekly Tanka Tuesday
Where the prompt is synonyms for :
Ghost & Hollow

I used : Spirit & Futile

To see other entries and participate go here.

&

With Real Toads with Vivian

&

dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night

 

 

Daily Prompt: In the Summertime

….Fondest Memory of Summer Past

GIRL’S DAY OUT

Summer in the city, driving in Manhattan we stopped at an intersection. Waiting among the throngs to cross was a gorgeous six foot four inch Scotsman. Trust me, I know 6ft 4in when I see it) He was in full kilt regalia. Portia yells from the back,
“Hey baby! What you got under that skirt?”
“It’s a quilt you nut”, Gwen piped in

“Nooo! It’s a kilt”, Michelle chimed in.
Portia went on, “Don’t worry ’bout it, he knows what I’m talking about.
Look at that smile!”

By now most of the people at the intersection that was politely not staring at this hunk, now had license to do so. And they were absorbing the interactions between all of the occupants of the car and this hunk of a man. He was blushing all over.
Yeah, he did turn crimson red. And that smile!! We all roared with laughter, even the passersby.

PR

4/06/2014