May 13.24: Coping, but barely

Distance

 

Distance

is a common thing

I never stop

not noticing.

Ubiquitous,

yet rarely seen,

it’s near and far

and in between.

But in the dark

of middle night

the whistle of a train

just might

remind me of

how far away

my loves and dreams

and light of day.

Or maybe drunk in

nectar’d throes

a Swallowtail

flits past my nose.

Perception

unanticipated

makes distance

more appreciated.

Thus surprise

of distance sliced

in arc and circle

chopped and diced

makes eye aware

like ear to song

of what was there

all along.

 

 

With thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,

submitted to Dan Antion’s

Thursday Doors Writing Challenge.

May 12.24: Coping, but barely

Once upon a time I was maybe in third grade when Sister Eleanor hovered over my desk. The word “terror” applies. “Who taught you to write?” she asked (was that a tear in her voice?). Thank goodness that terror tied my tongue and I didn’t reply “You did, Sister.”

Penmanship. Woe. Those hideous circles and ovals — just what had they to do with real life?

My mother’s handwriting was beautiful. Did I inherit that gene? Not even close. I have mastered a hybrid, part print, part longhand, which I can (usually) read. I should give thanks for the keyboard, yes? No. There is something about handwriting which is a fragment of a real person.

Many of us have handwritten recipe cards. There’s a person there under the ancient splots. When we take out those cards — or, from my grandmothers’ kitchens, scraps of calendars — we hold a flesh-and-blood woman. A mom. A grandma. A voice. An ironed apron.

We all know that you don’t have to give birth to be a mother. And for all those women in our lives who have mothered us, with or without the ironed apron, we stop for a moment today. We salute them all.

Happy Mothers’ Day to all who mother and have mothered!

 

May 10.24: Coping, but barely

The key

 

One day a very young me walked into my grandma’s simple kitchen and stopped dead, transfixed and wide-eyed. There, on the other side of her rolling floor, was the marvel of my life.  It was a dollhouse made out of a tall cardboard box. A townhouse (not that I knew at the time what a townhouse was). I’d never seen the like.

Some of its contents were real honest-to-Woolworth’s store-bought dollhouse furniture, and maybe a plastic baby or two, but most of it was created out of scraps. Imagine custom curtains made from bits of the pink plastic ruffle thumb-tacked to the edge of pantry shelves (eat your heart out, Martha Stewart). Oh, it was wonderful, and I spent countless happy hours playing with that, living, of course, inside it. Pretending.

That is why it is Grandma’s fault that I look at homes like these and immediately start placing my furniture. Imagining living in rooms shaped like that. Imagining walking up those stairs and being elegant. Imagining curtains of vines and trees. Imagining such refuge from the wind-up world.

Pretending is the key that unlocks all doors, so I can go in and know just where the chocolate is.

 

With thanks to photographer Kerfe at methodtwomadness,

submitted to Dan Antion’s

Thursday Doors Writing Challenge

 

 

May 9.24: Coping, but barely

The rickety door

 

The rickety door,

brave old thing,

ancient soldier

splintering.

Sentry faithful,

straight, alone,

pledge and promise

sealed in stone.

Arched and crowned

in Gothic grace,

no option but

to age in place.

Creaking, popping,

rust embossed,

rheumatic squeaks

in echo tossed.

Door-in-door,

casual plumb,

witness to herald,

hoof and drum.

And now, time-sanded,

gapped and grey,

in rasping crick

it seems to say,

“Admit it.

You would love to see

what’s on the

other side of me.

But I’m the keeper,

you can’t see more;

I have my secrets.

I’m the rickety door.”

 

 

With thanks to photographer Brian (“Bushboy”),

submitted to Dan Antion’s

Thursday Doors Writing Challenge.

May 7.24: Coping, but barely

I’ve been scratching my head for a while about this whole “Comments” thing. I used to be able to leave a comment just by leaving a comment. Then, for reasons mysterious, on some sites I had to log in before I could leave a comment. But I was already logged in. What sense did that make?

Now I find that on some sites I have to enter my name and email address before I’m allowed to leave a comment.

And Ginger, who has been a delightful source of commentary for a long time, is flagged as Not Approved. Who disapproved her?

Today I’m getting a message that something didn’t load. I read it. I know no more than I did before I read it.

So, dear reader, if you are kind enough to want to leave a comment on any of my posts and are asked for your name or a log-in or any other such thing, I can only apologize and assure you that I am not the one asking.

 

May 5.24: Coping, but barely

The trees far away

turn to blue,

dissolving into the sky,

hinting of things new.

But there are slippers at the door.

The air rolls on forever,

wanting to be breathed,

a world in wondering

unknowns wreathed.

But there are slippers at the door.

Tail-twitch of squirrel

throws down the glove;

wobble of rabbit ear,

coo of the dove

beckon like fireflies,

here but then not,

threshold moment,

indecision-fraught.

Because there are slippers at the door.

Isn’t it inner-dwelt,

a creeping unstilled fear:

if I seek that open world,

will the slippers still be here?

 

Submitted by photographer S.W. Berg

and me

to Dan Antion’s

Thursday Doors Writing Challenge.

(Dan, did I do this right?)

 

May 2.24: Coping, but barely

One last hug

 

I had to make a hard decision, dear reader, one I’ve been dreading for a while: I had to have a big maple taken down. This hurts. I think the original owners planted it, and I think they were a young couple; I can picture them in their first home, so excited to plant this tree as part of their vision. After all, we plant trees for those who will follow us.

But sometimes people plant trees picturing only what’s aboveground. In a small yard, a small tree seems the perfect fit. Twenty years later, the yard is still small. The tree and its roots? Not so much.

Not only were the roots of this tree cozying up to the foundation of my house, but they were also wrapped around the trunk, choking the tree. The front yard is a veritable corduroy road with surface roots. Those poor roots had nowhere to go but up to find food.

And thus did I lose bountiful shade on the west-facing front of my home. Hot summer, anyone?

Will I plant another tree? Probably, some day. When/if I do, it will be from the roots up.

 

April 30.24: Coping, but barely

His nose tucked neatly

under his wing,

slumbering peacefully

in the cradle of spring,

dreaming, no doubt,

of tasty pond goo,

he isn’t aware

he’s a one-duck zoo.

The youth of the pond

in rapt exploration

are staring at him

in awed contemplation,

trying to figure

just how in the heck

came a backwards head

on a wrong-way neck.

 

 

April 27.24: Coping, but barely

“Tell it slant,”

the poet wrote.

My camera heard

the cryptic quote

and ever since

has suffered no guilt

to record the world

in vertigo’d tilt.

But perhaps this is poet’s

wisdom elemental:

truth is best known

in bits incremental.

And maybe the camera

senses a duty

to say same applies

to earth’s transient beauty.

 

 

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth’s superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

with explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind —

— Emily Dickinson

 

My belated tribute to Poetry Month and Earth Day.

Also my argument that it’s not my fault when my photos are cattywampus; it’s my camera in cahoots with Emily Dickinson.

And, yes, dear reader, I sense the irony: Truth is stuck in this country’s throat right now. Is Emily’s notion of slowly revealed Truth the same as truth pried out like an abscessed tooth? (I guess I can’t help rhyming.)

 

April 26.24: Coping, but barely

When I speak of chips,

dear reader,

think not of computers

but of something more toothsome,

of how life melts at times

sweetly on the tongue

(or floor);

it matters not where the stickiness,

but only that it was,

and that it,

so rich in paradox,

awakened us

to dreams,

and to the irrefutable truth

that

— like ants —

there can never be just one.