Mom

Sometimes I feel
as if my mother’s story
got lost

She was
an only child
and that singularity
is a two-sided beast

Of course it allowed her
the freedom
to tell her story
any way she liked
without contradiction
or interruption

But it also left her
with the burden
of carrying that story alone

 

This is for Hedgie, keeper of Galen’s Friday 55, at Verse Escape.

Missing

do the trees
miss their leaves
in the frozen
heart of winter

does the moon
miss the stars
at the end of
time

does the shore
miss the sea
when
the earth
has burned
to ash

do you
miss me
when you
turn your face
away

because
I
miss
you

36 – Just Diddling Around

This evening
my ginger cat
rubs against my legs, purring
as I sit in the kitchen
listening to classical music
on the radio –
the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto

My dish and spoon
sit together on the table
as though waiting to run off
when I turn my head

Moonlight streams
through the open window
and I swear I hear a cow beller

Sepia Tea

1tea

We dress in Sunday’s best
sitting in the front room.
Your helpmeet serves
weak tea
while I fantasize
of rich, dark coffee

The low sun tumbles through
the open window
dazzling, on the glass-topped table
and silver-plated flat-ware

Outside, the dancing
sparkling surface of the lake
draws my gaze
Although I long
for its cool depths

 

This is for the Real Toads.

Image is The Cup by Adolf de Meyer, 1912. Fair Use Principles

Inferno, Room III

The Inferno was deserted
We walked dark, winding corridors
among huge whisky vats
and Rub Goldberg devices
kitsch loomed, vaguely threatening
plastic harpies
and plaster fortune tellers
eyed us

mechanical music machines
long out of tune
moaned and screeched
a discordant warning
Time will win
Time always wins

Welcome to hell –
here’s your accordion

 

 

This is a 55 word impression of section three of the House on the Rock for Hedge’s Verse Escape.

*Note: The last two lines are taken from a Far Side cartoon (“Welcome to Heaven…. Here’s your harp. /  Welcome to Hell…. Here’s your accordion.”)

33

We sit in a little cafe
run by latter-day hippies
with hand thrown crockery
thick and imperfect
dancing with color
plants hang
in macrame slings
I finger the three-tined fork
as you gaze at me
through the coffee’s steam

It’s time for an adventure
I spread the map

 

I think this still needs some fiddling.