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Love Last__

She looked and saw
and silently loved,
outside of confusion,
understanding only what lived in her heart
though others were dismissive.

She tried to stop,
but there is no stopping
a true feeling;
only time can do that.
But time, for her,
feels like an ancient turtle
crossing an L.A. freeway.

Never gonna happen.

She reached out,
that whole heart
carefully and cautiously
crafted into well-placed
words from the soul
which were met with silence
silence
silence
silence
silence.

And now, she nestles,
silently,
Against my shoulder,
A few teardrops being
the only words she has to say.

01140031

A Bad Christmas Cold Poem

The spirit of the season
Is bubbling like a brew
But its gift, beyond all reason,
To my body, is the flu.

Used Kleenex lies like drifted snow,
The orange juice is flowing
And there is no cure that I know
To keep my nose from blowing.

A fuzzy scarlet blanket now
Serves as my Santa suit
And cool cloths on my fevered brow
Keep me from looking cute.

Instead of ringing silver bells
You hear my hacking cough
Despite the Christmas cookie  smells,
All I want is broth.

I should be wrapping all those things
Or festiving the tree
But shoulds can fly on angel’s wings
I’m sick as I can be.

The holidays are almost here
And they may pass me by.
I’m full of snot, not Christmas cheer
As one this couch I lie.

I’m sorry I’m not full of cheer
I’m sorry that I’m ill
Hope Santa and his reindeer
Will bring a get-well pill.

Kleenex-Box1

Stanzas of Remembered Flowers

Lavender
I tried so hard to grow,
Neglected by long hours of too much work and finally
Dug up to death by my ex-husband
after the end of everything.
But it’s scent – bottled –
shines on my pillow on sleepless nights
and reminds me of my mother.

Violets
my grandfather’s favorite scent, my mother (yes, her again) told me.
I have a small cask of violet scent
that I cannot bear to open
because if I use it
it will be gone
and then I will not know what my
grandfather’s favorite scent was.
It has been on my shelf for so long
it likely smells now only of dust.

Gardenias
along the brick front steps
of the house where I grew up,
the blossoms a rare treat,
exotic and sensual in their scent.
I would spend time
picking off the little bugs that would harm the plant,
trying to keep it alive
even as the blooms turned golden brown,
their fragrance dragged down into the mud by age and air.

Daffodils
as a first hope
when winter seems unbearable,
tightly budded turned to trumpeting blooms
with a scent so scant one must know how to smell for it
but so fresh and full of spring as a ball of sunlit butter or warm kitten fur.
I sneak sniffs of their yellowness in the grocery store
floral section
and remember scampering over rocks
in fields that were full lush ripe joyous overwhelming endless
of them.

Roses
a drunken rainbow of colors
in the past and present and future,
dried and hanging from the ceilings and walls of the bungalow,
single corsages of forgotten origin tucked away in boxes,
saved so I would always remember.
The dozen yellow roses that my parents sent me
when my daughter was born.
Yellow roses.
Always my mother’s favorite.

Lilacs
consuming my small house
that I no longer live in,
their bushes roof-high,
their branches old and gnarled,
but every few years
the weight of their harvest
encompasses all the old white boards
and fading red trim
and transforms
an ordinary little old domicile
into a bower of magic.

So many more
captured in the mind’s eye,
in the recollected scent of complicated night breezes
and happenstance passages,
so many more to name
but every poem must
have an end

Or at least a pause
to cleanse the palate
and clear the senses.

Over Tired

Tired is an insufficient word
to express
The buzzing-hollow-drained feeling sometimes
leftover from a night’s unrest,

A night when strangers
stage dream interruptions
walking though a set not meant for them,
startling the dreamer,

A night of lingering spirits
of an unrecalled past
who are unrepentant in their repetitive passing
up and down the creaky floorboards,
the product of a sensitivity to souls
or an exhaustion-striped imagination,

either way,
equally real,

and
raptly unfinished.

The Coming of Age

Creeping like those cats with
three-inch long legs,
It steals upon you
in a whisper.
One day
You are
As always.
The next,
Your reflection
Reflects that
Your time is
shortening
— and not the good kind of shortening —

You look into your own eyes,
observe the lines
that life has drawn,
and think,

“Well,

all right then.”

His Wife’s Idea, No Doubt

His red suitcase –
A color chosen to make it stand out
amongst a sea of black bags –
and now like all other red suitcases
chosen to be outstanding –
Has a garland of fake
silk flowers wrapped around its handle
a surefire way to identify
it emerging from the bowels
of the baggage carousel.

He is completely secure
In his masculinity
Since even his bag
Has gotten leied.

July 2019
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