98.6

 

Quickly

Maybe the fire of youth singed
nerve endings or scarred my heart
or maybe the intense conflagration
left only cold ashes, no fuel left
to kindle even one thin smoky line
of flare. I guess I should care.
I read love poems that aver
without passion life is empty
but I’ve not found it so.
I don’t desire, don’t need
that fever pitched agony
an explosion of emotion.
In this winter season
your love is persistent,
hearth warmth, steady heat,
comfortable, easy, peaceful,
a tingle of familiar.
The consolation of duration.

 

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A Serendipitous Serenity

Quickly

Tree tops swaying in the breeze
to music the stars hum
Grasses nodding their heads in unison
as the wind nudges from behind
White capped waves undulating endlessly
Flock of starlings weaving like marching bands
Schools of fishes dancing to choreography
those delicate movements move me
(woolgathering, wasting time, laziness,
some think, some say, some sneer)
though I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the grace,
the beauty, the spontaneity. Maybe it’s just
that it tickles the jejune, surprises the jaded,
astonishes the negativity that grows in me
year by weary year of man kindled nastiness.
All I know is that my heart slows down,
the heaviness lifts, the years roll away
and I am a big-eyed child of wonder again.

Respect

mizquickly

Käthe Kollwitz
The Parents (Die Eltern) (plate 3) from War (Krieg)
(1921-22, published 1923)

August Sander: Lumpenball Em dekke Tommes, 1929. Private Collection, Gerd Sander. The Tate

They prayed and wept together
over their prodigal daughter
grief like a burn that never heals
she laughed at their silly mores
and lived her every pleasure.
Get up off your knees old people
I’ll get respectable soon enough
then what will keep you together?

The Eyes Have It

imaginary garden Fireblossom Friday : “The Distorted Lens”
So, your task is to write from the point of view of someone who is seeing reality through a distorted lens.

 

Pink Girl and Blue Boy
(Mom’s ceramic phase)
sat on the dresser
ignored for the most part
I didn’t like them
but … well, Mom made them.

I picked them up, dusting beneath
then placed them back carelessly,
started to walk away. I felt eyes on
my back, chills on my flesh,
evil in the room and looked behind.

They were glaring at me. I felt their
hate, their spite. I told them it wasn’t
me who had imprisoned them there.
They just glared, nostrils flared,
I was scared to death. Death was in

their minds. I walked back and with
a swipe of my hand swept them to
the tiled floor. Swept up the mess
as my husband ran up the stairs.
You okay, he asked. I told him what

had happened. I didn’t understand
the strange look in his eyes. It began
to be perfectly clear though. Disembodied
spirits like to choose their own hosts.
I’m going to watch him really close.

 

 

 

Twenty Five or Six to Four

written for Poems of Garden Gnomes PROJECT: POEM #1 – CONNECTION

 

Waiting for the break of day
bleary eyed, deadened brain,
my thoughts too jumbled to be read
I’m striving, struggling, stressing,
Searching for something to say

Dancing lights against the sky
I try to follow the red, green, white
stars or airplane I can’t focus
Giving up I close my eyes
Sitting cross-legged on the floor.
I’m guessing the time is
Twenty five or six to four

Wondering how much I can take
out, delete, refine, compress
afraid that later I’ll find I
Should have tried to do some more
but it’s late or early, probably
Twenty five or six to four

Feeling like I ought to sleep
knowing if I do the words won’t keep
Spinning room is sinking deep
just like my whirlpool thoughts

Searching for something to say
is this the way Dylan, Bukowski
wrote Waiting for the break of day?

Twenty five or six to four
Twenty five or six to four
magic hours of the morn
still it pricks like a thorn
Sitting cross-legged on the floor

 

ROBERT LAMM wrote this song I love best performed by Chicago.