Patchwork Prose and Verse
today I loaded my car with books
first editions, autographed names
I’m holding on no longer
to these inked hostages ~
those sentiments are
not mine; nor those
memories ~
I’ve let
go
of
housing
what should live
in places loved
where their worth is not
measured in value of
possible return or in
collectors’ satisfaction but
in what’s inside ~ their words and message
in Genesis
Lot’s wife looks
back longingly
to the past
before turning into
a pillar of salt ~
so as I part with
these pieces of
past, these
memory scars of
what once was
but is no more
I heed
Luke’s caution ~
that the past can be
the kiss of
death for
the present
old books
have arsenic
old paint
has lead
old memories
have heartache
directly home after
the graveside
service of her
husband’s funeral
she pummelled
all 9 peace lilies
down the bank
into the
Flint River
they remind me of death
hurling the plants
with emphasis on
words as she flung
the polished green
leaves over the edge
me, cheering her
for their unspent
lives unlike that one
on our front porch
a funeral leftover
that will not die
yellow-brown curled
leaf fingers grasping
for life in all its
wanting to be
me, planning a trip
to the river bank
with a peace lily
I checked daily for
weeks on our baby wrens
in the garage
on the old desk
destined for Goodwill
but when I got
home from work
the nest was destroyed
pulled into the yard
a broken candelabra
shattered on the
concrete floor beneath
something got our babies
probably the feral cat
the black one that
comes in at night
trips the light
prowls around on the hunt
I tiptoe sometimes
down the hall to watch it
in its silent quest for a
field mouse
something found these
baby wrens I’d
eagerly spied on
from eggs to
nestlings, almost
fledglings,
their tiny mouths
opening for worms
at the slightest
bump or noise
in nature’s cruel twist
they became
the worms
Rest in peace, little ones.
At 3:54 a.m.
I felt it~
the sting itch
of a bite
on my insole
I fumbled for
the itch cream
back in bed
couldn’t sleep
4:17 I felt the
critter urgently
scrambling
Along the back
Of my shoulder
Up my neck
Behind my ear
To my hairline
Where my fingers
Found it,
Pinched all
The way to the
Sink, released it
To see a lone star
Tick scaling the basin
I turned on the water
Chased it down the
Drain, pulled the stopper
And filled the sink
But still felt the
Crawly itch as I
Lay back down
on my eyebrow,
under my armpits
in the fold of my ear
even my clavicle
itched ~
(they don’t
make
clavicle itch cream)
more goodbyes today,
this time the petals
of the yellow roses
adorning her casket
the ones I rescued from
the graveside for fear
the deer would eat them
instead bringing them
home to make potpourri
but never opening the
lid, finally pulling the
red Russell Stover
chocolate Valentine tin
from the top shelf of
the closet, opening the
lid, taking in the
faded scents of
New Year’s Eve 2015
the day of her funeral
a last day of a year
a last day of a lifetime
a day, June 13, 2024
to say goodbye to
the flowers I’ve kept
for so long
I scattered them at
the edge of the wood
where the tragedy
happened with the
squirrel so the flowers
recycled to another
farewell and will
live on in this red
clay pine tree forest
forever
it all happened so fast
thirty yards to our left
in the woods
along the edge of the driveway
in the rural countryside
in the early morning
where anything is possible
where most won’t walk without
a wildlife safety gun
** (but I do) **
as I was walking the dogs
a rustling of underbrush
and a flash
something fast and dangerous
*** (not a deer) ***
running through the trees
me in my work heels
in sudden panic
my sled dog team kicked into
high gear
jolting me into a
sprint
holding on tight
praying whatever it was
would keep going the other way
*** (it did) ***
making me wonder:
is it time for a wildlife gun
or at least a fire extinguisher?
a catastrophic system failure
when things don’t quite go as we’d planned,
spinning out of our control,
fall apart at the seams
come undone, collapse
unraveling
spiraling
groundward
splat
It’s already as hot as August
in Mid-June, the kind of heat that
makes you wonder how we all
don’t cook to hardened arms and
faces like a pig on a spit
and why dogs don’t all
wear shoes on their feet
to go anywhere
and just exactly how people
without air conditioning lived
ages ago and whether frying
ice cream should be legal.
Today marks 155 days that those in The Stafford Challenge began a yearlong quest to write one poem each day for a whole year. Last night, we celebrated with poet Jessica Jacobs of North Carolina via Zoom, listening to her share her writing retreat to the desert of Arizona as she wrote about the art of Georgia O’Keefe. When writing group days intersect, it’s always interesting to see how several ideas can combine into one poem and fit in all of the spaces.
Jessica Wiley is our host today at http://www.ethicalela.com for the final day of June’s Open Write for 2024. She inspires us to write poems by taking the spines of books and using them as lines. You can read her full prompt here.
My Reading Life
Life’s Greatest Treasure
Big Magic
Some Much-Loved Poems
Bear in the Back Seat
An Unexpected Guest
Living with Haints
Dead Uncles
