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Mugs
Some days I want to drink my coffee
From a mug that reminds me of my mother.
It’s one on permanent loan from
The work kitchen of a now-defunct employer.
It’s gentle curves are like a mug my mother gave me,
A fine sheen, ivory and green, embossed with seashell art.
I lost that in the divorce, along with many things,
And drawers and cabinets full of pain and dead dreams.
My mother doesn’t know anything about that.
She died before it happened.
I often wonder
What she would think of me,
My life,
My choices,
Now.
But this curved mug
Is brown and green and embossed with trees
Like the ones my mother loved so much.
One of my favorite images is of her
Hugging a pine tree
In Rocky Mountain National Park.
So when I fill
The mug that reminds me of my mother,
With Folger’s crystals like my father used to drink,
It is as if I am having a small cup of coffee with my parents
Each morning.
That is a very fine way to start the day.
Denver, Colorado. (This is my alternative mug, purchased for
me by MKL. I love it.)
Quote of the day: “I am the way a life unfolds and bloom and seasons come and go and I am the way the spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life.” – Charlotte Eriksson
Daily gratitudes:
The flat fall of Snowmaggdon
Favorite movies on a snow day
A super snuggly cat
Experimental eggs
Having a warm spot on a cold day
Surreality
The shadows surround each parked car,
glooming up,
swallowing hoods and fenders,
lurking in front of darkened headlights,
stealing away as my eye
catches their evil.
Innocent bunnies
bare fangs
and have a Mexican stand-off
in the middle of the street,
dashing off angrily in opposite directions
when I approach.
A dog barks deeply
the sound lingering
in my backyard,
spreading out thickly through the
cool, damp, air.
I do not have a dog.
It is snowing in May.
I tremble from exhaustion,
fumble with the light switches
curl up in a soft bed
and live inside my dreams.
The Age of Silk
The 100 watt light on the bedside table
Shows me the truth in the fabric of my skin.
My hands.
I look at my hands
and I can see the crepe paper texture
of my skin
when I hold them
just so
in the glow.
And I remember my grandmother’s hands.
When did I get
my grandmother’s hands?
Age tells its tattles in little ways these days.
Most days,
I forget,
and think that I am 20,
just as I have always been.
But then I find the years
standing snickering at me behind a post in Market Street Station
as a young man asks what year I graduated
and I have to tell him that
it was
before he was born.
It is only in the nights,
the nights now when I am alone –
no shoulder for my head,
no lips to tell me in love that I look
20 –
the nights when sleep is elusive,
that I see the crushed silk of my own skin
unmasked by the eyes of time.
As you know, the Weekly Wednesday Poem is generally a piece that touches my spirit and that was written by a well-known poet.
Today’s Weekly Wednesday Poem is a departure from that protocol – it is a repost of one of a piece by one of my favorite blogging poets. Read Between the Minds is an amazing blog by an amazing poet and photographer, and slp never fails to stir some emotion with his words. I was honored when he dedicated a poem to me a few months back as I was in the never-ending throes of starting my life over. But this particular piece is simple, evocative, erotic, reminiscent and timeless for me. I hope you’ll visit his blog, and I hope he is pleased that I chose to share this as the Weekly Wednesday Poem. He’s in the excellent company of others who’ve had the Wednesday place of honor, and I hope one day, his words will be as famous as those authors.
Planning
just before
their lips met
his tongue
traced the edges
of hers
as if
mapping out
their future
and then
they took
turns
breathing
for each other
deep breaths
into each other’s soul
forming
an eternal
ring
of passion