Oddments

In search of story


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Disconnections: October 16.18

Morning sun

in autumn slants

reveals my dust-fest

extravagance;

my foremothers

would surely look askance

at my housekeeping

fainéance.

Matter of fact,

I think they glanced

and left this subtle

recognizance.

 

(Is this literary irony? I’m stuck in this dry, arid word desert, and dust gives me words. )

 

 

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Disconnections: October 10.18

I am in a word desert, dear reader. Have you been here? For a while now, every time I try to write there are no words. None. For as far as my brain can see, not even a syllable. I know I’ll find my way out, but I don’t know when.

 


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Disconnections: October 1.18

As you know, dear reader, I am in the process of down-sizing. And process it is. I still have things in a storage unit, and I’m here to tell you that “out of sight, out of mind” does not apply: those things jabber at me all the time, yelling across town “We’re still here, you know!”

Sorting through life’s accumulation requires thinking, contemplating, reflecting, and — the biggest obstacle of all — remembering. One cannot just pick up a box and heave it into the garbage — it might have an old birthday card in it! And heaven forbid I throw out a Tiny Tears dress I’d intended to keep forever!

For me, what greases this slow-grinding process is anger. When I get angry, I can see so clearly what I don’t need! I can see how junk is weighing me down, and out with it!

The last few weeks have brought — for me — the climax of a long wind-up of anger and grief and resentment and depression and disbelief and despair and frustration and disgust, as I try to understand what has made children and women such disposable commodities. My struggles culminated in a free-for-all of unloading. And thus did I fill my car on the weekend for our community recycling day, and thus did I heap my own recycling bin to overflowing.

An inadequate catharsis, perhaps, but at least a constructive one. At the rate things are going, all my belongings will soon fit in a thimble.

 


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Disconnections: September 27.18

 A window with a view

coveted prize

a break in routine

rest for our eyes

a tree with some posies

quiets day’s din

but sometimes can startle

by looking back in.

We’ve looked back and forth

Crabapple and I

exchanging world views

in the year that’s gone by.

It’s given the kitchen

a leafy embrace

and made my new house

a cozier place.

Lichened old faithful

steadfast and seasoned

shading me from

a world all unreasoned.

There’ve been times in my life

I’ve known a kind tree

that seemed like kin

and companion to me.

Perhaps you, dear reader,

understand what I mean

and also have had

a friend that is green.

 

When I moved in here, almost a year ago, I knew that two trees would have to come down. This crabapple is one of them. Now the arrangements are made, and I can’t help the sadness. It’s been so pretty, wrapping around my little bay window. This place is still not home to me, and the crabapple has seemed to know that. I will miss it.

 

 


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Disconnections: September 20.18

“The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes”

I mistakenly thought was fiction

and I planted this year’s pear tomato

with blithely naïve predilection.

Egad, it grew like Jack’s beanstalk

like some overpowering addiction

forcing the zinnias and chives

to bent and yellowed eviction.

Even the pots on the deck

are muttering gruff malediction —

who knew one little tomato

could become such rabid affliction?