Category Archives: Poetry

Mended


IMG_0253

I used to come, a  loving – though transient – visitor

but now this place holds my pillow

and my dog’s bed

and the flowering seeds of my child

come to visit me instead

One day in autumn

when the leaves let go of branching flesh

where orange and gold burst forth

and verdant meadows

cushioned their fall

and rain chased them into rivers

my grandson watched

as a thousand boats of gold

swirled and twirled upon streaming creek

and disappeared under the stone arches

of a packhorse bridge

“Bye leaf! Bye, bye!”

he shouted

his cotten-clad arm waving like a puppy’s tail

The joy of being Grannie

washed over me

and I realized in waves of relief

that I don’t have to say goodbye

anymore

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Filed under biographical, Poetry, Travel

Reflections on ‘Liberator’


Porlock Vale

During infancy, before we use words, we have only physical senses and conscious awareness. Movement, vision, sounds, touch, reflexes and emotions become the sum total of our experience. For most people, their earliest memories start from the age of two, when they had enough words to make simple statements. Words allow us to express, judge, store, and repeat the experience for later use. Those who study Human Development know this early learning phenomenon as learning from Bottom Up, versus the way adults learn, from Top Down. Adults use their past experiences to recognize, categorize, and make sense of new ones. Infants don’t have a filing cabinet full of past experiences to compare with, nor language to describe with and file in retrievable order. For babies each moment is untainted, unprejudiced, and pure. Each experience contains a powerful impact.

Those who attended Liberator experienced this bottom up style in the performance, a dance/movement production which made that same powerful impact – an emotive and unforgettable event. Watchers found that no script was written, no direction given by word, no linear guide of what they should understand, think, feel, or believe they were witnessing. The audience became a part of the act, equal as trees and grasses that stroke the wind, or as earth and water that breathe beneath the sky. Each person had freedom of opportunity to employ their own interpretation of the dance, the movement, the music, the emotions expressed, raised, and felt. Each person was deeply touched and moved by seamlessly woven story-in-action.

The dance/performance Liberator is based upon a real past event – an airplane that crashed during WWII over Porlock Marsh – as remembered by an old man who witnessed the scene when he was a boy. The boy certainly had language, but with little experience of the world, how could he make sense of war and death and devastation and hope and love and all the implications and feelings that encompass war? For him, witnessing that plane crash was a Bottom Up experience. For us, Liberator was a chance to participate in our own act of creativity as we watched the beautifully choreographed and emotively danced and played performance.

wings   plane

Liberator

A man and his long armed jacket

Whose arms become wings

Spread-eagled over the land we call Home

Leather helmet and goggles

Speaking of a time

Of a movement of people

Of armies, forces, guns, and planes

And a war to end all wars

Of three boys and a girl

Running through woods

Hiding in marsh grasses

Playing beside skeleton trees

In the shelter of a stone barn

Fiddling with radio knobs

Their innocence seeking music

But receiving the voices of battle

Of victories and losses

And a snare drum rat a tat tatting

As air-ripping sounds stream down from overhead

Bullets strafing the stone walls

Skudding and thudding the marsh mud

Children hiding under the radio table

Shuddering in terror

Running outside, following the pilot

He who flies for their freedom

Who leads them to safety

Whose movements encourage, embrace

Who thrills and instills a passion for living and loving

For the joy of being alive

Man body entwines with boy body

The knots of family and country

He who guides them to classrooms

Who teaches them strategy and planning

Who tries to stop them from straying into danger

Who suffers their innocence lost

Who dies in the marsh

And shows them the face of death

How it does not move

How it stops loving arms from holding them safe

He who remains still

And useless

Leaving only war and the hope of peace behind

Melts into earth and the setting sun

In a cauldron of flaming clouds

Snare drum playing a funeral beat

drrrat… tatttt… tatttt

Horn crying Taps in plaintive single notes

The Last Post – Day is Done

Sixty onlookers walk in silence

Following steps of those gone before

Having once learned the history

Yet only now understanding

That history is just

His Story

Our Story – our shared experience

And our silence

Bleeds

Just as they who went before us bled

From a desire for freedom

Like a living, breathing animal

Like a bird that soars

Like a helium balloon with paper planes tied to its string

Rising to the heavens

Like a note that never stops playing

A drum that is never truly silenced

A movement, a dance of life

In the meadows, forests, and marshes of this earth

A voice, a cry of hope

The human condition

A Yearning for

Liberty

Raffy 2015

Liberator was nothing less than an act of devotion. It moved me to tears many times over. The devotion showed in so many ways; it came from inspired individuals, some from this community and others from elsewhere, and it grew into a greater community of people honoring the past with their passion for art, their creativity, their skills, their time, their presence, each one sharing in the freedom of expression that many of us take for granted – until it is lost  – or stolen.

Liberator became a passionate expression by adult and child performers who dedicated more than skill, practice, and time by living and breathing Liberator’s soul in their hearts, minds, and bodies from early this summer to its evening culmination in autumn.

dance  rescued

Not a single thread of the Liberator was woven without love. Every moment of each event thrummed with intensity from the direction and choreography to the performance; from the designer, producer and graphic artist’s work to the providers of setting and space; from the makers of airplane fuselage and costumes to providers of period props; from the sound designer to the still photographer and videographer; from the production assistant to the behind-the-scenes crew who ran about, collected, dropped off, showed up, dug in and did everything they were asked; from the 1940s double-decker bus and driver to the creator of Delicious Feasts that formed and furthered more bonds of community; from the shared food, the laughter, and stories to all the people who came to listen, watch, follow and experience this dynamic Exmoor event.

   3 boys

The Liberator was born of a memory, an idea, and a desire for expression. In its production and performance it gave birth to new community, new memories, new ideas and a greater appreciation of the sacrifices that were made to preserve our freedom and the right to creative, artistic expression.

Well Done, everybody. Liberator was simply AWESOME.

For information on Liberator, more photos and biographies on all involved, visit the website: http://www.stackedwonky.com.

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Filed under Editorial, Poetry, Travel

Nature


rainbow-in-clouds 2

She stitches clouds

with rainbow strands

Her threads disappear

invisibly mending the azure silk

Her hills are swept

her valleys washed and rinsed

blow-dried

and rinsed again

Now shining, gleaming

under her waxing

moon

she smiles

No wonder we call her

Mother

But then

she has her moods…

Father, wake up!

She has ‘that look’ on her face

Gathering her army

thundering slate-grey battalions

and cumulus lunatic laughter

she sends artillery

frozen, sharp and stinging

targeting buffalo, elk, pony and man

ice bullets pelting hides

they bounce, burst, land and melt

streaming down the rough fur coats

that Father made

knowing of her

long

winter tantrums

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Mended


Before the leaves left their branches
Orange and gold burst from their flesh
and verdant meadows, thick with green
cushioned their fall
and the rains chased them into rivers

My grandson watched the thousand boats of gold
swirling, disappearing under bridge and walkways
and he called out to them,

“Bye leaf! Bye, bye!”

I smiled at his hand, waving like a puppy’s tail

and at the joy of knowing

I don’t have to say goodbye

anymore

2 Comments

Filed under Poetry, Uncategorized

Nature


May-June 2007 039
Turned me inside out
Lush hedgerows, blossoms bursting
Beauty’s soul exposed

8 Comments

Filed under Haiku, Poetry, Uncategorized

Magnetic Morning


This morning’s walk on the beach was graced with the largest eagle I have ever met – enormous back and shoulders, and he wasn’t even in flight. He perched like a Lord on driftwood throne and watched my dog with an expression that said, I am one bad-ass eagle, baby, so don’t come near me or you’re toast. She respected his boundaries and went the other way. I took his photo, but my camera zoom doesn’t do justice to subjects further than 20’ and nothing, aside from the visual experience, could do justice to that eagle. He became ingrained in my brain with the demeanor of a white-wigged barrister, not Rumpole of the Old Bailey – but someone far more pristine and noble, yet not unlike Rompole’s keen wit and knowledge of law and nature.

The view of the Olympics contains a new magnetic property, one that affects my eyes. Usually my eyes roam the skyscraping India ink ridges, and they trace peaks, while imagining valleys and other-worlds within, and between imaginings they keep watch on the ocean and its currents.  This morning they measured the coast and were drawn 5 miles inland where blanketing trees, one horse, two dogs, some cats and a very intriguing human being were sensed.  When I looked away, the long line of sea foam that delineates a changing tide had appeared – I missed its birth in my moments of distraction.

In penance I stood witness to the afterbirth and the frothy line changed shape – reminding me of a hospital room where the electronic heart-beat instrument displays the rise and fall of action potential reached: a spark, a peak, a dip and decreasing bounces with steadying aftermath only to reach its potential again.  A mirror image of the mountains and the feelings in my heart and body.

So often I arrive at the shore just at the point of tidal change and I wonder, does my body know? Does it hear the ocean stretching, pulling, relaxing, constricting and the silence of the pause between ocean’s breaths? Because in that silence, in that miniscule pause, my soul feels where the knowing exists. And I am so attracted to the knowing.

Image courtesy of Martha, Amazing Poet and Photographer: http://lilliesavage.com

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Meditation on Moving On


At Keystone Café, the radio plays

and words of a song from the sixties pierce my coffee-bred thoughts:

Always something there to remind me…

Trying to forget, I know this world is but a dream

a temporary mirror of the other

that place where you and I reside in eternity

mere cells within the One Great Plan

where time has no meaning

and words don’t exist

and love is a given

Yet here, amongst dog rose and lupin

she, open and pink

and he, closed and blue

we became like them – rooted in sand

surrounded by stones and their stories

drinking summer grey mists

on salt water taffy mornings

but rose petals fade and lupins shrivel

their seedpods of black

hanging like coffins

Right now

in this moment

eagle perches for the view

and fish dance

and gulls dive for the feast

and cry

this is mine

All the while

the ferry inhales and exhales passengers

like a heart-lung machine

a blood bank of journeys

a breaker of waves that crosses the synaptic sea

and, locked into terminal, transmits

holders of keys to neurons

In bursts of energy

flowing down rivers of roads

streams of pulsing potential

these elements of the greater intelligence

try to carry its message

this for the arms that yearn to hold

that for the aching walk-alone legs

and yesterday’s broken dream becomes

one Sunday transformed

A poem is born in words that don’t rhyme

as the radio plays another song:

Can’t you hear the pounding of my heartbeat,

You’re the one I love…

Holding the mirror close, all I see is my own breath

and waves that drill the shore in a tumbling roll

while the ocean remains constant

and eagle takes flight

 

Submitted to:

onesingleimpression.blogspot.com

poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/poetrypantry

sundayscribblings.blogspot.com

 

 

 

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Fickle Sun


Walked a grey beach this June-uary morn

dressed in winter and thick jacket

until the sun appeared, along with

that miraculous blue

I think it used to be called Sky

I returned to the cabin to write

but weeds spoke louder and heat rose

from damp beds of trespassers

Stripping off winter

I dove into shorts and sleeveless

wheeled my rusty barrow on nearly-flat tire

into the midst of sloping green lush

and began digging roots, pulling weeds

Two glorious nose-freckled hours later

nails chipped, cuticles stained with soil

back throbbing a digging pulse

that drum

signifying weeks of inactivity

painful but beautiful,

fulfilling song

Garter snake, robin, worms and ants

swallows and swifts, spiders and deer

hummingbirds, rabbits, beetles,

and oh-so-many slugs and I

perform

a summer symphony

groans, sighs, shrieks, shrills

shimmer, buzz and breath

praying the sun will bask in our music

be entertained

and stay

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Morning at Keystone Harbor


Mast-high pilons root deep in the harbour sand

and slapped by bickering waves

abrupt and cold, as if salt-crusted sea cow’s tongues

washed the creosote, lapping the rough black skin

cringed in retreat at the horrid tar taste

and swelling again hunched their wet shoulders

A stadium wave pummels the shore

incessant and rough

stretched and rolled beyond limits

potential velocity breached and broken in foam

while terns and kittiwakes play on invisible currents

spearing the air with their descending cries

high wire acts on daredevil wings

flickering from kohl to silver

shimmering white then back to black

frontside to backside, fishschool patterns

flocking and swirling their silhouette like smoke

dissolving against the cyan blue sky

Two terns in the harbour mercilessly tease

a solitary grey-winged king of the pilon

the glaucous gull, the beggar bird

Detached and rooted he cries

tasting the aromas of

fresh baked bread and buttered crab legs

Across from the harbor

a broad windowed café gazes at the sea

surrounded by flowering weeds and dancing climber roses

red against white beside weathered ash benches

There, a writer sits in her windproof jacket,

intense and frowning

lost in the force and dimension of imagine

her broken stories mended by a smooth wooden pen

while, gathering the morning sun,

the oil of rose wafts subconsciously

into her work

Beyond her a mocking ghost fence

groans in the breeze and rattles in the wind

and traverses the meadow grass beside the coast road

a wooden signboard, wearing time-peeled paint,

hangs upon rust-bleeding screws

Chipped and blistered

it tells its own half-dead

but still kicking story

in black on white with three simple words

Private, it says.

No Trespassing

gulls painting may be purchased from:  http://www.carolthompson.com/seabirds/harbor-gulls/index.htm

Entered in: http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2012/04/thursday-poets-rally-week-65-april-5.html

23 Comments

April 1, 2012 · 5:03 pm

Beloved


I am child of toboggan and of a family that played in snow

Dad chose our Connecticut house for the half acre yard,

its graded slope was perfect for tobogganing.

I am child of a mother who cut my snowsuit

from the warp and weft of my father’s WWII Marine uniform

Between her singer sewing machine fingers

magic happened.

She buttoned me up and wrapped a knitted red scarf

round and round my little bundled body

then, kissing each of my dinner-roll cheeks

she looked into my eyes and smiled.

I knew I was loved.

I am child of a family whose interlocked legs

made space for me at the front.

Tucked under the curling toboggan’s hood

nested in my sister’s lap within big brothers’ reach

I sucked and ducked gallons of snow dust

guided by parents’ voices: lean this way or lean that;

and the toboggan flew like a snow-Ferrari

until it tumbled at the bottom of the hill

dumping all of us

boots and mittens flailing

tears of laughter freezing on faces

my mother’s eyes shining, burning like a winter-hearth fire

reminding me Who I Am

before I forgot.

Decades of seasons and snow wove their tales

of forts and slushy meltdowns

until miles of death and years of living changed my view.

Today it grew cold and it snowed.

I grabbed my new yellow ergonomically designed snow shovel

and I worked all morning while flakes descended like long forgotten memories

until at last, I gazed with satisfaction at my newly cleared drive.

Exhaling clouds of frost, velvet roses feathered my cheeks with her warmth

I felt her hands bundling me up

and I saw her eyes gazing into mine

And I knew once more the love that glows against winter and cold

And I remembered

This is Who I Am.

 

 

 

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Reincarnation


#1

Dead drifted wood

Harboring frost

Dreaming ghost branches

#2

Rising sun warms

Crystal meditation

Awakened water flows

#3

Earth thirst quenched

Knowledge released

 Memories take root

~

submitted to:

Jingle’s Poetry Picnic prompt: Spring

Thursday Poet’s Rally  – Wk 60

dVerse Poets prompt – Imagery

Haiku Heights – Gem

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This Is Who I Am


To be a writer

is like being two atoms that dance with one

Hydrogen playing with Oxygen

moving with scintillating, procreating fluidity

a disciplined yet unchained pattern

until the quadrille

slows down

and stands

with hardly a breath

transforming into crystals,

each one a unique expression

of water being frost

rock being mountain

or wind being ripples on river’s skin

like human being body, emotion and thought

like me, turning molecules of mind into words

dancing the rounds and rhythms,

pulling sounds and meanings like taffy;

stretching, tempting, and loving the sweetness

of post-rain petrichor, poetry and story-being-born.

Discipline is all it takes;

it’s only a matter of focused attention.

All the while my faucet drips

a metronome playing Chopin’s Funeral March.

It echoes against the cold hard tub: Dum Dum da Dum,

Dum da Dum da Dum da Dum…

A suitable march for somber scenes

or penned phrases that smirk.

Do you remember Mommy’s funeral?

When we weren’t supposed to laugh?

Suddenly, simple things such as a lady’s hat

black and wide

a saucer-shaped ride for snow,

turned resignation and sorrow into nonsense,

amplified our sighs into unstoppable giggles,

and hoots escaped from our throats

bouncing off gravestones

and falling like stars of grief-relief.

We stood there, two children hugging themselves

trying to appear with socially-acceptable sadness

behavior more suited to the tragic event.

We failed.

Laughter, glorious laughter

like a toad released in a classroom of nuns

shocked the mourners and freed us.

Mourners shifted in confusion

at our emancipation.

Surely we weren’t glad that Mommy died?

No more bed pans

No more sheets and laundry

Not one more morning of waking up wondering

if she’s dead

or still dying…

Is that faucet still dripping?

It is.

Handel’s Water Suite No 2

now skipping like tigger in my tub

bouncy, boisterous and… happy.

In the yellow pages under Plumbers, I find Scotty.

I call and ask him for a quote.

He knows my rented cottage

I forgot that this is an island,

a community of small and intimate

where no sparrow falls without everyone knowing

just as no bath leaks

nor pipes crack

nor drain becomes clogged

without Scottie fixing it

I need more than a washer, he says,

to stop this rhythmic dripping that disturbs my work.

Receiving his quote, I discover that words come cheap

but plumbing doesn’t.

His repair will cost me a whole chapter

including the edits.

Handel’s happy notes begin to grow on me.

Staying in the moment, I hear another pattern

an attitude – a practice of choice – an epiphany.

A drip or a sound need not be my nemesis

instead it is a setting; fire and fuel for my work.

I listen to the rhythms, inhale them, accept them into my being

Words commune and bond with water

dancing the dance of intention

while I, in glorious birth,

exist again and again and again

bonder of sights, sounds, heart and soul

in crystal-forming discipline

becoming what I already am

and so

I write

~

Submitted to Poetry Palace’s Thursday Rally:

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2012/01/agreement-for-poets-rally-week-60.html

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Dawn Ablutions


Starting the day by counting ten things that open my heart leaves me awash in Gratitude, a perfect morning prayer.

Thank you for:

Pink-tinged sunrises, transforming trees and silhouettes

Eagle’s mating cries between wings that steal the sky

Heron – still as stone – takes flight,  a squawking winged dinosaur

Red-shafted Flickers dropping madrona berries on my roof,

and each happy Plunk, landing like a new idea

My golden retriever’s Sigh, soft as her silken Fur

Fresh-ground, steaming-hot Island Coffee with milk and two sugars

Words, and finding just the right one

Windows – my eyes into this island’s Soul

and Doors – God’s open arms into His

~

Submitted to: Poetry Pantry

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For Kay: Remembering Geoffrey


In the trembling ether

of three candles’ breath

We sat through the moment

of Geoffrey’s death

humbled by his generous heart

He who guarded both person and cat

as if his life were only for that

and all he asked in return

was closeness to us

He’d nudge a hand or press

the weight of his chin against skin

His eyes spoke more than language can

His tail, always applauding

never failed to cheer those watching

The candle flames dip and glow

almost as if they know

that today a great soul is passing

Geoffrey – the Lab x Rottweiler dog who lived and loved for 18 faithful years

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Shaman Song


Medicine woman gathering sap

Amber balm of tree

Trapping Loon’s sad laughter

~ ~ ~

Holy man drumming

Surf pounds island shore

Beating stone prayers

~ ~ ~

Salish hunter singing

Heron watches Eagle’s reflection

Listening to all the drums

.

Thursday Poets Rally Week 52,

18 Comments

Filed under Haiku, Poetry

Nadira’s Gift


Through the insanity of “flow” fixed stones of words grow, grounded in clay, slate and molten glass, grass, roots of earth, hearth of sun, mantle of river where water tumbles, crashes over edges like minds of poets and women who sit beside windows and touch across miles and oceans…

and smile because they know they come from the same strain of imagination, rained upon by years of struggle, laughter, tears, fears, and playing with saying words, caring not about madness but only seeking those moments of divinity where life begins and ends in a flash of recognition…

realizing death is just a breath inspired, a change of the woven pattern from knit to purl from water to gas, moving here from air to there where a thought or a prayer pulls Form out of nothing and starts all over again…

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Sweet Peach


I no longer have to share my peach

not even this, large and ripe as a Red Sox baseball

ready to play

leather smooth and fine in my hand

Glowing yellow slips and drips

its plum red core

creamy across my tongue

but the pleasure is somewhat wanting

I should be happy

to have this fruit

all to myself

sitting on my shelf, no longer at risk

of succumbing to other hands

hands that would take it to mouth and bite into flesh

without even thinking of sharing

Those hands would quickly be empty of peach

and full of its satisfaction

while I, complaining, though only in fun

would go and buy another

I never really minded

His pleasure pleased me

as much as the peach

pleased him

Now I have my own peach

carefully pitted and sliced

placed on earthenware inside up

blushing towards the sun

waiting for me to enjoy all by myself, all to myself

with no one to claim the bigger half

~ * ~

Last week’s bowl of ripe Skagit cherries

departed, silent with the season

that I never noticed leaving

The bowl sits on my counter, a barren vessel

If only I’d tasted one more rich orb

before having to wait for next year’s crop

knowing this was the best we’ve ever had

realizing the miracle of ripened fruit

If only I’d enjoyed a little longer

spitting the pits across the garden

one more time

The only thought that hovers now

like an uninvited guest

is that no one is here to share the bowl

or to challenge me, seeing if I could spit the pit

further than him

~ * ~ * ~ *

Submitted with many thanks for their service to writers to the following:

Poetry Pantry at: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/09/poetry-pantry-is-now-open-67.html#comment-form  AND

Poetry Picnic Week 5 – Jingle’s New Poetry Place!

http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/2011/09/poetry-picnic-wk-5-object-thing-form.html

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Shoshone Muse


Return to the place where You began

and know it for the first time

said the Muse of the hills

She of stone, witness of weather

Keeper of the ways of time

whispered deep: Feel and weep

Let your tears paint the earth

with salt and sweet release

to merge in sand, soil and rock

Be grateful

Life is your work

You, maker of art

need only master certain skills

before you can walk away

While  I, Keeper of Time,

stand here before sun, moon,

and seasons

constant, harsh and soft

wearing me down

to scoured bones of stone

 

Submitted to: Poetry Potluck 

http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/2011/07/poetry-potluck-week-44-painting.html

6 Comments

Filed under Poetry, Travel

Doc Sheridan’s Gift


He walked into the white-tiled room

wearing clean green scrubs and a hood

It must have been an Easter-bonnet reject

with flowers long-since gone, only one thing left

the pale green gauze and a chin strap

wide as a flap of beard

Anyway, it made me smile

He smiled back

I was gonna tease him about his funny looks

till a nurse handed me a bag and said

Go take off your clothes; put these on instead

I pulled out one of them flap-backed gowns

made to fit a 700-pound body

and me, being just a fraction of 700,

did what I was told

but there wasn’t no tie to hold

the back-flap together and hide my knickers

Then inside the bag I found a hag’s bonnet

only this one was white – not my best color

it framed my mug like a prison shower cap

the size 700 elastic slipping down my face

not a trace of brow left and hardly any eyes

Stripped of my clothes and vanity

I re-entered the room, humbled

on equal terms with the bonneted Doc

He’s an artist I decided as he described

the seventeen bones in my foot

compared to only three in my ankle

He knows every one of those structures

like the back of his hand or his own child’s smile

Put your feet up here, he directed

and took a pen from his pocket

then outlined an arrow that pointed to the spot

where the screw had stopped working

and was no longer needed to hold my foot together

Suddenly

he drew a happy face on my big toe

made me giggle like a little girl

Ooh that tickles, Doc

How good it was to laugh with my artist surgeon

easing the pre-op tension

Then Robert came in – Him, the nurse

with the warm blanket and eyes,

wrapped a strap around my arm

and pumped till the numbers jumped

Are you nervous? Your blood pressure’s up

Don’t worry, he said. This is just like

going to the dentist

My blood pressure rose again

That’s when Doc took a full syringe,

aimed it at my screwed foot, and squirted

saying This is gonna be a bit cold

But it was more than death’s door of cold

It burned like hell

It will kill the pain, he promised

If burning like hell was better than that pain

then that pain was gonna hurt real bad

so I was glad I didn’t have to face it

Soon after my foot went numb

Doc said Let’s get started

I walked to the operating room

holding on to my floppy cap thinking

To hell with the exposed back-flap

I’ll be sitting on it soon

I climbed on the table and met John

the vet tech for people

He covered me up and hung a sheet

so I couldn’t peek and pass out in a swoon

I lay back down and talked a streak

looking into Robert’s brown eyes

trying not to worry that I could feel a lot

more than my heel, I felt my whole foot

in Doc’s hand and I felt pressure

The only real pain was in my brain

and in the bone where the screw was stuck

They put a tourniquet down around my calf,

and I laughed thinking my foot might fall off

and solve the whole problem if they forget

but they didn’t

A few stories later – you know, the ones I told

to keep us all entertained while they worked

though I doubt they listened, knowing

it was just a ploy to keep me busy

playing with a stream of words

Well, a few stories later,

using the scalpel, pliers, and the wrong screwdriver

they tried to unscrew that old pin

but the bugger was stuck in there

We need a Number 62, said Doc

It’s in my office

I hoped his office was close by

and I told another story while they tried

to find the right driver. I don’t remember now

if the story was done when someone said

Screw’s out!

Robert showed me the titanium imp

that made me limp every time I donned a shoe

for the last few years

I felt like shedding tears of gratitude

but I just said Well Done and Thanks

They bandaged me up and sent me home

with one black sandal and two white pages

of post-op instructions saying

Stay dry

Don’t try running or playing golf  – yet

Keep your foot up and take a rest

You were blessed with a good screw

Now it’s done and gone so hop along

and we’ll take the stitches out next week

When Rich came home and saw the new shoe

and the bandaged foot, with toes exposed

and the happy-face still grinning, he asked

What’s up?

My foot, I said

I have to keep it inclined

Would you mind walking the dog?

So he did, much to her concern

cuz he still hasn’t learned

to scoop her poops without gagging

It’s not the dog’s fault they stink

Then Rich went to get us a take-out supper

since I shouldn’t stand but when he left I stood

I wanted to cook the dog’s dinner

sweet potatoes, brown rice and chicken

Tomorrow while he’s out playing golf

she’ll be here with me

licking the happy-face

tickling my toes

and making me giggle like a little girl again

google images

Posted in: http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

 

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Matin


In the presence of Self

in a place of Alone

where words dismantle and disperse

just as dreams that disappear upon rising

I sit and drink sweet Columbian brew

from a china cup

Cherokee sighs, her tawny gold fur

resigned to carpet while paws twitch,

ears lay flat and deaf

nose clocked-off and eyes

dimmed beneath soft-lidded mounds

My g-o-D spelled backwards

snores in her sleep

The coffee-maker base

clicks on… and off

as it heats and cools

on… and off

an electric lung

breathing the silence

of kitchen and space

No radio, tv or iPod tunes

unravel the morning

in this place of Alone

no racing to work

or seeking solutions

to revolutions and chaos

and all the troubles

that humans burden

and chase

while amassing wealth

discarding waste

their cycles of activity

dizzying and pointless

In this place of Alone

where worlds dismantle

and disperse like dreams

I sit and drink

from a china cup

with only the movement

of breath flowing in

…and out

in…

and out

Blood pulses

like highway traffic

while I surrender

to the awareness

of d-o-G spelled backwards

Submitted to Jingle’s Poetry Potluck and One Shot Wednesday

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