The Dark Reign of Winter

Stride, stride, stride in rhythm, thunder, lightning, falling rain.
Sky dark bursts of water, soggy, wet, boggy, cold
Slow, slow, slow on reaching shelter, comfort, hearth and home
Build a fire, light it quick, make a pyre, a righteous pile
Of all that grieves, grieves, grieves a dark heart,
A burdened heart, weighed with sorrows, like bombs exploding
In black bursts of regret, regret, regret no solace yet.
Slowly warmth creeps through the air, beauty erupts in licks of varicolored flame.
Familiar objects tug, tug, tug at memory,
Filled with thoughts of times past when life was ours, and freedom.

Three AM Thoughts After Listening to a Zoom Featuring Robert Haas

Photo by Anton Klyuchnikov on Pexels.com

We met on the mountain at the halfway point between up and down. 
Hard-packed dirt bordered by scrappy shrubs 
and occasional candy wrappers, 
the path slid into loose gravel,
washboard erosion.
We braced, slowed, stopped. 
We stood face to face, more honest than when we fought,
voices raised in anger at slights so minor as to be unmemorable. 
We embraced, we wept, we sat on a boulder 
looked out on the sea, 
its azure blue, green, purple depths 
roiling, settling, welling up.
We wavered, pulled by the gravity of the moon and the earth.
We hovered between earth and sky.

What Goes With a Fedora?

The linen fedora sat jauntily on the Duchess’s head. “Who needs a tiara. On to the ball.”

Her gown took up most of the limo’s back seat, leaving the Duke with scant room to spread his tails. “I can’t very well wear a top hat with you in that get-up.” He sniffed loudly.

The Duchess handed him a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “Then wear a bowler. Or maybe a feathered bonnet. Wear a tiara if you want.” She hugged up her husband.

The Duke said, “You need a trench coat to go with the hat.”

“Why does everything need to match, darling?”

Trust Your First Guess

“A tenner on Marmalade.”

The guy with the eyeshades burped. It was a disparaging burp. “You’d bet on an orange horse. Take my advice. Save your money.”

“Well what would you advise?” The lady, or maybe she was a floozy, asked. She fluttered her eyelashes and tugged at dangly paste earrings. “Help a girl out.”

“God, my feet are killing me. Take my place so I can sit down and I’ll give you a winning tip.”

The lady was used to dead feet. She had on heels that were half her height. “Deal.”

And it was Marmalade by a nose.

Let Us Eat Chocolate

The Easter Bunny wore a polkadot tie to the Last Supper. The feast was well attended. The patriarchs wore yamakas, clerical collars, or golden chains of office. They made nice on the dais as an example for others. It was the Easter Bunny who’d brought it to their attention. Holy wars, though none is really holy, were on the rise.

Everyone agreed, if it got to Crusades level conflict, they’d need to call on Mother Nature to create another Great Flood. Yes, it was her. She gave a moving speech about climate change. The Easter Bunny passed out chocolate eggs.

We’ve Cornered the Market in Tragedy

Fall colors pull me into the corner boutique. Rich burgundy, rust, and hints of black, abstract shapes intertwine, chase an Asiatic pattern over the five foot silk length. I’m in love. When I wrap the scarf three times around my neck, the sales lady says, “It suits you. You have a long neck. A dancer’s neck.” I’m not a dancer. I have two left feet. But I take it because the colors perfectly suit the melancholy of the fall day. On the sidewalk outside, there’s a newspaper in the box at the corner. The headline reads, “People’s Temple: Mass Suicide.”

All of Paris is a Museum

We came to Paris for the museums. L’Orangerie in the Tuilleries, Musée Marmottan, Musée de Cluny. We walked everywhere; it’s a small city. First stop was Gallerie Lafayette. “It’s like a museum,” she said.

“No,” I said. “It’s a department store. See the price tags.”

When she approached the register with full shopping bags, I asked, “How will you pack these home?”

“I’ll need a suitcase.” So she bought one. At the Cluny, she browsed the gift shop until nearly closing. She purchased a full set of pillow covers on the Lady and Unicorn theme. That was the first day.

It’s All Greek to Me

Rain came down in buckets. Frogs poured out. They hit the ground with a splat. No one knew how frogs had spawned in rainclouds, or if that was what had happened. But, absolutely, frogs were falling from the sky.

Some landed in marshes, maybe on their heads. They sang silly songs. They offended poetic sensibilities with ignorant chatter and stubborn opinions. Dionysus was out for his morning constitutional when he heard the cacophony. “Fetch those frogs for me.”

No one could. The frogs had leapt into the air, back into the clouds, loud, louder; oblivious to the noise they made.

Three Things to Carry When Hiking in the Sierras

She always wore the silver-banded jade ring, hiked in the red shirt scrounged from a garage sale for two dollars. The color attracted hummingbirds that flashed color, buzzed sound, came dangerously close. They thought she was a flower. The shirt’s power, the contrast of tame jade and wild hummingbirds, the contradictions that lived inside her. Sometimes it scared her.

Her knife, an extension of her red-shirted arm, cut bread, spread peanut butter. Like the wild hummingbirds, she hovered on the edge of aggression, starved and looking for something to eat. The jade, it’s calming green, a promise to heal herself.

Brain Fog

The garage is cluttered. Before I start, I need to organize.

But first, I should think things over. Clarity first.

Focus, clear these old magazines.

What’s the timer for? What’s that smell? Do I have something in the oven?

It’ll wait. Out to the recycling with these.

Pick up the mail. The Economist is having a laugh. Trump riding bareback, bare chest on Vlad’s polar bear. Wasn’t Vlad’s a horse? Bears in Greenland? So many interpretations.

Let me close the garage door.

What is that smell? Oh my god, I’ve burnt dinner again.

I think I need a glass of wine.

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