A Bitching Fact.

I am convinced that how a person treat the parts of his or her work, or craft, or art that cannot be seen, is a direct reflection on how they treat other parts of their life that go equally unseen.  

You will never hear me say, "Don't bother, nobody will ever look back there."

The Baseball Game

"Steve, the ball game starts about six. I figured we'd leave about four, get there early so the boys can look around. Why don't you just come over to the house about that time. We'll load up and go."

"I... "

"What? You still want to go don't you?"

"I've got so much to do around here."

"It"ll wait until Sunday, won't it?"

"My house needs cleaned. And there's weeds everywhere."

"Ah, man come on. Take a little break."

"Nah, I can't. Really."

"The boys sure are going to be disappointed."

"Yeah. That's why I never had kids."

Green.

Suddenly, I am aware that there is nothing but green... everywhere, lush and uniform, as if, in unison, every
flower has dropped or been plucked in rapture.

     They say not to keep anger bottled up inside of you, that it’s cancer to the soul, and it will claim some part, if not all of you, eventually.

     I wonder if the same is true of beautiful things, our mind’s and hand’s creations, things we are most proud of, the things that we hold in outstretched arms and say, “Look. See what I made”. I wonder, if these things are never shared—there’s no one to share them with—if some limb doesn’t wither and die; if the soul is defeated.

Maybe

     it’s the rain, the cleansing. It hasn’t rained for so long now. Everything is dirty, rank. It’s been like living out of a car, a laundry basket of soiled clothes. You never feel clean. You just want to draw up, close your petals; ignore the filth.

Maybe it’s my boy’s breathing. Slow, steady, sleep breaths—human breaths—here beside my bed. He’s always close. It’s strange how I will open the gate for a dog.

Maybe it’s that I conquered myself and laid back down, ignored the compulsion, the flaw, and slept for another half hour.

Whatever it was; I feel rested, awake; in the deep places sleep rarely reaches.

The Seventh Pane of Nine

llll

Through the seventh pane of nine
        
    She is flame and ivory willow,
                 
        Among the shortened days

           Of smaller friends,

               Crowned now, in Timothy.

She divines,

       With rods of lavender,

             It seems,

                A waltz,

                    Beneath thirty and three hundred chestnut rings.

Bare steps

     Over urchin husks,

            Needling,

                 Witching the swell,

                        That pearls

                             Between knuckles and knees.

    

SC July ‘09

Rural Ignorance

There are sheep with guns outside your gates, who’ve been told that doves are wolves.

Love Poem in Red Italics

Love.

You want love?

Here... 

I love you so much, that I will never let you find me again.

"It's twue, it's twue!"

July the Fourth is living up to its sweltering reputation.

Being 99% hermit, I am not engaged in a traditional celebratory get-together today. I am (was) trying, despite the heat, to catch up on some neglected gardening. Pulling weeds and pruning mostly.

But it’s hot. A 95 degree, Southern kind of hot. And, being 99% hermit, I have, over the years, become aware of the fact that I am the only one who sees my garden, and that I really don’t care if it’s a tad overgrown on the hottest day of the year. I hardly even notice it from inside the air-conditioned house.

I did though manage two “small stones” while out there…

Anise! Anise! Licorice!

And…

Beneath whimsied vines the Wisteria crushes arbor bones with Philistine grip.

Anyway…

Stay cool.