We Wait and We Wait

Then the thing rushes in at us, 
thick as fog, green as a storm. 

I did so well for so long. 
Since Thanksgiving.
Cold hard water troughs had to be hammered to let the water up for the birds.
Rain was cold and frost was jagged.

Solstice swept in with summer heat, then back to rain, 
dripping sprinkles light enough for a new lawn. 
So many birds feasting on grass seed 
that a second bag must be sown, then even more.

Each day we watched the tiny green blades fight towards the light. We stared and watched, finally letting it be,
knowing green blades would fill in, 
eventually was filling in in bare spots. 

Birds drifted away when their wild birdseed was not refilled.
We checked morning, noon and night...the growth is infinitesimal.
The gophers try to move the house.
Time is on their side.

Rain pours and pours and a foot step sinks,
a collapsed tunnel, now a low spot.
And a muddy shoe trips...a lumpy mole hill.
This kind of sturdy grass creeps on, growing through mowing, through muck.

That patch is not a lawn at all finally.
No flat to be seen, but not quite dirt either.
Land. Field. Yard. Driveway. Cold before Christ's birthday.
We live here? Right here? Garbage cans at the driveway?

I know childhood eyes can't see their older adulthood. Not even adults can; can't see nights spent drowsing, snapping to conclusions,
then drift again to a restless sleep until the next wondering wakes us. 
Sick with fear, colored blinding magnesium. So hot I'm shivering.

This year, last year, all the years; traditions.

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A while ago

A while ago I wrote the post below.
Now,
it is the third day after Thanksgiving,
in  a different year.
And,
I think I need a heart and head massage
and a back massage probably.

Do you think if I had a broken leg 
there would be anyone rushing over,
longing for, reaching out,
dying for connections?

Nah, I'm annoying.
But also wonderful.
Sometimes when I've annoyed,
I wish I'd been wonderful.

There was a heavy, soggy stick Penny chased into the ocean.
She keeps loping out farther than ever!
then races back to us with or without the stick,
in absolute joy!

My gray matter has scars that cause fear, loneliness.
I need to rest in that loneliness, 
not fight because it's inoperable
a physiological part of me,
and admit 
that Penny has been waiting for me,
quietly on the couch, 
for hours.

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I'm writing 

I'm writing on a Christmas card
the third night after Christmas,
because it's strewn here by my bedside
in a pile of unattended stuff. 
Everywhere you look in this house 
is unattended stuff.

I suppose I should be ashamed -don't care -
I want to care, that could lead to attempted cleanup.

This stuff will unwind itself eventually.
New Year's Eve is my goal.

This communicating thing. Can't do it.
Texts come though the phone with exclamation marks,
meaning what? 
I keep mine to "I love you!".

My fear was confirmed today: family not answering the phone.
Do they want to control the conversation, will not communicate now.
Will not.
Will not call back.
Will demand memorization of all emails, texts.
Will pout with disdain if I forget.


I'm scattered and unattending on a calm day. Forgetting is my bane.

I believe this with all my heart, God help me act.

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

* Kahlil Gibran was a Lebanese American artist, poet and a writer.

Shame for Worrying

Who worries for nothing?

I've worried for so many things. So many to count.

Mom said, 
"You're the only one I don't wake up for at night and worry about."
Worry as a compliment?
As love?

I only heard "The one I don't wake up for."

What comes from worry?
Not much,
unless it's accompanied by careful, calm thought.


No, usually it's frantic, like the tree next door,
that grew too large, with it's brutal red leaves,
shutting out the sky blue and sun,
long branches whipping in a good strong wind,
with no purpose except perhaps a warning: 

"Danger, it's chaos out here!"

hurrah

Cheers  for one,
he got the worst and the best.
Deserved peace, but spent so many years
at war with indecency and fear, brutality.

Not chosen,
not deserved, 
not deserved at all.
fighting the indecency that brought us down.
Aren't we, aren't we to fight?

Some will not, 
some can not, 
I'm not sure, but 
as well as they can.
Some will keep the balance 
as hard as they can!
as hard as they can.

Don't stop, you who were knocked down.
And we won't!

He reaches, and continues to reach for the right.
Sharing it when received.
Zig zagging out of the wrong 
as fast as he can!
as fast as he can.

We did our best, they say,
crawling til walking
then running in joy.


Some came who could, who would.
Some could not come, 
or, wouldn't, 
I'm not sure, but
we all tried as we could,
we tried as we would.

Time now rests on laurels.
Laurels on a rested head.
He stands now as he wished, and wishes.
Let the wounded go on now.
Let us each go on ahead,
And we go by, into what's right.

Hurrah for the man who
directed the war 
led and fell back
leading the wounded,
willing or not.

Trying, looking to good and to right
and then stepping back
when it was time.

don't get close!

...
Losing two doggies,
one sick, one old,
is no picnic lunch at the beach

with a table cloth to cover the sand,

big rocks holding down the pretty print,
sand blows and sticks to the food
no matter what measures taken.

See poetic avoidance?
Get to it.

I KNEW:
no more dogs!

Think of the freedom...no dog sitters for vacations.
no dog hair.
no dog worries.
no dog attachment.

Why look in the news ads for puppies.
Makes no sense.
Doggies cause TROUBLE.
Doggies cost MONEY.

At the vet, 1 1/2 days in,
we told how Penny
had a sick belly, wouldn't eat
wouldn't drink: especially concerning.
ER Vet said maybe parasites or virus
not worse, probably, hopefully, sick-with-worry-ly.

$$$ spent to buy pup
$$$ money spent to fix pup

There went the freedom from vet debt.
How do you factor money into bonding time?

I thought we'd had enough pain,
enough to know not to get a dog.
..
...

Trying to figure things out...

...is not one of our slogans, I was told.

Why do I ride?
It's lonely without good curious rider friends,
curious about every part of riding. 

Why do I read about architecture?
And the British Monarchy.

Why do I wonder and puzzle over relationships?

Who will call?
Tell me lots of fascinating stories about horses 
and do I want to go riding with them.

Is the purpose to work towards
anything besides improving my skills?
There is only so much intimacy with horse and trainer. 
So solitary, though intimacy is what I crave.

Round and round the arena.
Getting a bit better at balance and posture.
But is there more? A point?

I think this has something do with this year's many endings.
Dogs, trees, hair color.
White hair has me trying to recognize that woman.

And figuring things out leads me astray;
weak with obsession, it pulls me in again.
Shaky hands are proof of failure to comfort.

Baby holds my heart, but she cannot be my all.


I thought I heard a dog sigh tonight.
There was no dog.
There were no children to help with the Christmas tree.


...