The dripping haze, so cloud soaked and sopping I’d rather not face the day—if that’s what this is, sun so absent I couldn’t say, not for sure anyway but best start waving off this foggy, humid morning digging through a hundred shades of grey to find an hour worth the waking.
There’s something in the water, a cold, menacing thing. Crushed glass on sea foam, riding the wave and crashing against the sand, tearing it back from the hill, dragging it back to the fathomless deaths. This violence in Poseidon’s eyes, this murder in the sea-girls’ hearts. Wreathed in weeds and wildness, they clutch daggers to their frigid, North Sea breasts and barter in drowned men.
Gone away before your time, my dear, sweet boy, what a soul you had! The hand of God moves over the waters and through green grasses caressing the earth. You followed west breezes and sent back such stories and hugged me so warmly before leaving that last…yes, time can be cruel with reminders.
My dear, my lovely, you’ve left me alone here and now distant our voices from so long ago. We can’t remain children forever and always but God—that we could, that death would hold back and time would slow down, we would bask in the honesty of youth, truth falling from our lips, our twin souls, sweet like raspberries from overflowing vines, with love so pure, white snow would blush in its presence.
The white knight left last Tuesday. Now every day smolders and a new kind of light flows in through the windows, unnatural and beastly, like the breath of a dragon all scales, claws and oil slicked back and sticky like a greasy businessman too free with his hands as I lean on the bar and wait on my tab taking each “honey, you’re lovely” with a “sweetheart, stand back.”
Black comedy is an overused device. It’s lost its potency from years of patched together productions. But those ironic twists still make a person smile. There is no fear of divine resolution here. In an earth made of dirt and water, no possibility ends in an extreme, just a sopping, muddy mess. I will entertain this adventure passively. Quiet and demure, I’ll see it play out. No denying my role in the melodrama. I play the foil to the male lead, biting wit and acrimony most often on the tip of my tongue…but all in fun. One clever punchline and forgiveness is forthcoming. This is the ruse used to distract the patrons of my father’s house, the men who sit playing cards and drinking whiskey, unafraid of death or unaware of it, too busy laughing like fools while the walls crumble around them.
there’s sense and then there’s something else altogether or all together, I guess if we’ve made this into a family affair dinner will be at six appetizers on the back porch sunshine in your eyes as you explain again why you broke our pact for security in our old age and the tax breaks of filing jointly
If you like my poetry, you’ll probably like my prose. And if you like historical fiction narrated by a burned-out, bitchy blind woman, you will definitely like this book. Some of you have already checked it out and many many thanks for that. You’ve increased your karma ruples by hundreds :)
Another day, another dollar, another twenty percent for Uncle Sam and his assorted family— my family they tell me— though I never get a birthday present or a card at Christmas, just more pavement on these dead end highways that lead back to more days, and more dollars.
Sudden darkness like sudden black magic swirled in full sunshine of a mayday noontime crept up out of crypts I thought long conquered and buried tight, and dizzy with the spine-tingling, hand-trembling flutters of free fall and first dates, I clung to the rungs on a metal ladder three stories skyward and mused over with some sinister but no less glorious expectation how it would feel to let go.
Mother Mary, grant a prayer for me? The babies are sleeping so sound in their cradles and everyone else fell asleep in their drinks. The party wound down after sunset and midnight with one man lingering longer than most, damn his stubborn nocturnal bravado, his attractive features, his good taste in clothes. I’ve knelt here and waited, hunkered down in this closet, I swear the air’s getting harder to swallow but dear God in heaven, I don’t think he’ll leave! And here’s one reunion that’s too late in coming— I won’t take the high road, the low road’s just fine, thanks so please, Mother Mary, I’ll kneel and say penance, but grant me some whiskey and a pillow puh-lease?
“Through the deep night a magic mist led me
like a simpleton roaming the land,
no friends of my bosom beside me,
an outcast in places unknown.
I stretched out dejected and tearful
in a nut-sheltered wood all alone
and prayed to the bright King of Glory
with ‘Mercy!’ alone on my lips.”—First stanza of “Ceo Draiochta” by Eoghan Rua O Suilleabhain (eighteenth century Irish poet). Pretty pretty.