Saturday, September 29, 2007

He shouldn’t have been there.

His dark haired body
stretched out on the folding counter,
languid against the fluorescent brightness,
reflecting off the glass the sightless
night; passed closing time.

His shirt was open
waiting for the dryer to finish;
I couldn’t take my eyes off the dark stripe of curly hair
that spread from the center across his relaxed belly.
He was watching me sweep
from under the arm resting across his forehead,
while I watched him.

I’d never seen hair there,
only heard the whispered giggles
of what was found at the end.

Curiosity, wondered the feeling of it,
the timid hand’s sensitive touch,
lightly discover the curled texture
and the sudden jump of surprised abs;
but he doesn’t move, only the breath
sounds change, faster with strained
control not to gasp.

I told him a secret,
whispered it in his ear, so close to his neck,
his scent mine for a moment,
listened to his groan at the hearing;
my fantasy his now.
Lips just touch his cheek as he leaves.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Power


A distant sun
with no one to see it rise.

The ocean has the power
to crush a ship,
throw a survivor on shore,
or burry him deep.

Do clouds have power?
Insubstantial wisps of white fluff
carried on a sigh,
but when they turn gray and dark
and crowd the sky fighting with flashes for space;
then we see their power.

Where do you keep your power?
It seems small and frail
tucked away deep
in a quiet space.

It’s been slapped down
too many times to come out aggressively
and claim what it wants,
so it is timid and unsure.
Waiting for certainty,
the slightest bit of encouragement
to stretch out just a little bit more.

But a scattering wind can blow out a storm
before it has a chance to gain its potential.
And so your power builds just a little,
testing the breeze,
wondering if this will be the moment.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

My name is Uncertainty. (thoughts and a poem reprint)

At sixteen I went through the “ Who am I?” phase, smoking, drinking, sleeping around, trying to identify the life I would lead. When I met you I became the complement to you, enjoying those things that you enjoy, racing, shooting pool, drinking…

When our children came, I became the image of mom as close as I could come to perfect, a composite of yours and not mine and borrowed from the TV ideal; PTA, parks and play dates, coffee and shopping, making ends meet.

Today as the cloud of second hand smoke wafts by and I consider bumming one from the young man in shades, as he takes lengthy draws from the end, I realize I’m again in the “who am I?” phase. Twenty years from the last smoke of my own, waiting for class to start. The first time around I had an idea where my path would lead me. Now – I just don’t know.

At seventeen
No thought was clean,
So close to purity of thought.

At eighteen
stuck in between,
never understood what she had wrought.

At twenty-one
So much fun
Oh, he really is the one!

At twenty-three,
Does he love me?

At twenty five,
Again -
Does he love me?

At twenty-seven,
Does it matter?

At thirty-four,
Not any more.

At nearly forty,
What will I do?
So filled with doubt.
Uncertain – Fool!

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

I thought of you at lunch today.

Alone at my outdoor table for one,
Half in the sun,

The tangy flavor of the sun dried tomatoes
basil and mozzarella, on my burger,
red olive oil staining the grilled bread.

The sheen of buttered crumbs, dust my fingers
and beg to be licked;

too exotic and busy for your simple,
greasy spoon, hometown tastes.

Heat and vinegar of Tabasco firing the ketchup
For my salty fries.

Long given up

flavor, of a hard pear cider, crisp and dry,
with its lingering tartness

clinging to my lips.

Could be shared

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Power failure

The source of all goodness and joy in my world of work and play is having serious technical difficulties. The AC adapter has a short. It always seemed to get hot after an hour or so, of intense concentration on what ever writing project I'd been working on, but today it spit at me. Flares of "fuck off" shot from some exposed wires just past the rectangular adapter, with no power reaching my poor computer. I've used the last of its battery power to pen this fearful note and to order the replacement adapter, which had better arrive on Monday! Tragically this means no Sunday Scribblings entry this weekend however I may figure out how to use this other, less complicated instrument I've found, pen and paper, to write out my entry and post on Monday!! Or maybe Tuesday.

While I wait I've picked up some light reading. "The Age Of Turbulence, Adventures in a New World", by Alan Greenspan.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

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Saturday, September 15, 2007

Collection

The phone rang today. At the other end a woman asked if we handled any rental property. As a real estate office, we handle the purchase and sale of property, but not really rentals. Some of our agents own rental property. After explaining this I offered to take her information and pass it on. What are you looking for? Do you have any pets? How long have you lived where your at now? Why do you need to move? How much can you pay in rent? Do you need a certain school district?

She and her husband are both applying for disability benefits and her uncle gets social security. Their son is in the same middle school as mine. They need at least two bedrooms. They used to run an animal rescue but had to close down; they still have two large dogs that they rescued and a Chihuahua that they’d like to keep if they can, she explains tearfully. They were just told that the owners of their home of over four years, sold the house and now they have to move. They pay $550 a month but she thinks they can go as high as $700. Their combined income is about $2200.

I tell her that I know of a small three bedroom house across from the grade school just around the corner from the middle school that has just become vacant. The previous renter needed something a little bigger since the birth of her third child and moved to a more spacious apartment with a pool. She plans to home school the kids but is having trouble with providing for the social needs of her middle school son and second grade daughter. She used to volunteer at the grade school, making popcorn and served on the board of the local PTA.

I fight the urge to collect them all. To open my arms and comfort their collective pains, to spend my mental energy solving their problems and making them my own. It seems such a small thing, give someone a ride to the store, to listen to someone else talk about issues with their teenage son, to counsel an abused mom, to have a safe home for the kids to come to that they know what the rules are and what to expect. Seeing the green mucus run from the nose of my friend’s son and knowing it’s the unhealthy childcare environment; what harm is there to take care of him myself and save her the hundreds of dollars I know childcare costs.

So much of this world could be better if more of us did just a little more to help. The instinct is there but we all fight it for fear of getting hurt.

Once while driving through town, traffic seemed unusually heavy. A red pick-up truck with a loaded camper on the back has stalled and the driver is pushing it by himself down the street. There is no street parking on this highway through town and his push has to round the next bend and then, maybe travel another block up the side street to possibly find a parking space to stop and evaluate the cause of the stall. But this poor man is pushing by himself, and the side street has a slight incline. How is he going to make it? Around him, car after car passes without even a honk. Eyes see his pain, the exertion, the sweat dripping in his eyes, as his small daughter try’s to steer. How many pass – before finally someone jumps out of the still moving van his wife is driving, and begins to push. Then someone else does the same. The wife drives to the private parking lot just around the corner and begs the gate guard to please let these poor people park here. By the time the truck reaches the lot, four more people have jumped out to help. Combined, such a small effort; but it couldn’t have been done with out them.

I collect small differences, little “goods” of the world. All those small pieces of good that fill the world but so few claim for fear of the little effort it takes to bring it to life; those pieces that fill up the heart and fortify it, making it whole, light, free.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

The End.

Fairy tales woe to happily ever after. --- And everyday after.
Splendid sunset of red streaking the sky. --- Blue glow of dawn.
Bright sliver of the waning moon. --- Sigh of the new moon waxing.
Exhausted three week vacation,
pulled up in front of the house. --- Unload
Bent over the last row touching
each seed to the ground. --- Sprout of spring
Paydays stretch to the next. --- Never ends
Fall --- Spring
Road --- Endless
Death --- Rebirth
Faded lilac blooms. --- Pruned for next years blossoms
Summer --- Spring
Childhood --- Over and over and over and over…
Good rubber on the tires. --- Every 10,000 miles
Rivers dance to the sea. --- So long as it rains.
Bears winters nap. --- Again after a hearty meal.
Winter --- Promise of Spring
Baby’s cry put to the breast. --- He’ll be hungry again.
Extinction ------
Jostled bus ride after work,
vacant stare out the window. --- Everyday for the rest of your
Life
Fuck off!!

------

The only true ending, extinction and Fuck off.
Ends Communication, cooperation, understanding, sympathy, empathy, interaction, consultation, collaboration, tolerance, comprehension, compassion, appreciation, consideration, support, acceptance, harmony, trust, and love.