Informed sources tell me
The answering machine is dead
No more blinking lights in the dark
When you turn the key in the lock
There may be a few still left out there
But the authorities will be by to remove them
Hopefully one has been placed in the time capsule
Reflecting another low tech era gone by
Please leave a message after the beep…
Imagine a grief like this:
long lean empty arms,
a runner’s legs marking unfinished miles.
Sunday days, stretches of desert.
Drawn out sentences.
Streams of consciousness
open to nothingness but
dusty roads prickled with green
finger-like conical trees, living, but dead-looking,
sharp and pointed.
No touching, no softness, no healing.
Amazingly unnaturally natural.
Haunting signs of grief.
A cactus,
Black-threaded stitches puncture my happiness,
the ridges on the desert’s prize:
the saguaro of grief.
today, as i was walking down the street
i met a man who could not be discerned
from these paving stones; and the blue-red
lamplight of the moon was always
raving at the stars; and the way kids tread
the slickness of this mind must seem
darkened with the softness of the bread
which cuts days thick; and man must hear
the gleeful worlds of childrenkind
laughing at the lunacies of sliced fools.
we think the thoughts which, underfuelled,
by intellect, make conscience die
death brings us always heaven’s claws
and smites the hedons found outdoors?
More at https://www.jamesbellamy.org/.
I see her everyday in my neighborhood
Early every morning like clockwork
Carrying a shopping bag
And scavenging garbage cans for treasure
She’s probably in her 70s
Nothing unusual about her
Probably homeless and searching for food
Are my first conclusions proved wrong
After seeing her for months while I walk my dog
I approach her one day and offer her $20 for food
She looks at me with disdain and refuses my offer
Not even politely she blows me off with pleasure
Long story short, two remarkable things happen
I see her one day at a flea market
With a table selling her wares
And discover soon after, she lives in a luxury condo
across the street from me
I surmise she retired years ago
Found herself bored or in need of funds
Was in good shape and clever
Knowing free inventory is money found
I judged her with typical city eyes
But applaud her for her discipline and courage
For she found the secret of one man’s trash
Is another woman’s payday and cash
The softest love
Ever experienced.
The quietest moments
Spent gazing into
Each others’ eyes.
Not a sound,
Just a mutual feeling
That we’re in the
Right space and time,
Not a care in the world.
Your smile fills me
With joy and hope.
The most special of
Times, spent with the
Most beautiful of souls.
Our love isn’t
Just for now,
It’s a magnificent
Gift to be
Enjoyed for all time.
I can’t envision
Being with anyone
But you.
I feel contentment
Beyond words
When I’m with you
My gorgeous flower.
Come with me,
Let’s go into eternity,
Together forever,
A love for the ages.
The demise of Mr. Wise came as no surprise
to the clerks in his department,
those weathered women who for years
had borne his scorn so well.
The story goes that Mr. Wise that day,
balancing his tray at lunch,
stepped lightly past
the puddings, pies and cakes
and pitched across his broth.
Two feet from the register, he dropped,
a humpback suddenly ashore.
Behind him in the line was Mrs. Burke,
who saw her boss’s water break.
She knew right then
there was nothing she could do.
After all, as everyone could see,
an earthquake in the chest
had taken Mr. Wise.
And that is why she raised
both arms and cried,
“Forget the CPR! Someone
call a priest!” No other sound
was heard that afternoon.
Not one boo-hoo.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.