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Feb 24 · 85
Ordeal of Dresses
L B Feb 24
"****** of crows"
Yes, that too~
The dysmorphia of an aging body
struggling to try on dresses
struggling for some semblance
of age-appropriate beauty
has-seen-a-better-day

Mother-of-the-bride
captured
for a photo
hugged by lycra
Arthritis crying from every joint

More like carcass-by-the-road
Feb 18 · 292
Spilled
L B Feb 18
Why does the room smell flowery
like spilled wine and longing

I rub the damp mop along the oak
darkening its grain
Beautiful in ruin
again
Feb 15 · 96
End of Day
L B Feb 15
She pulled the tie from her hair
releasing the avalanche of gray
Handfuls of snow and mud
tumbled from her tangled
Tired
like the end of day
curtaining
restive eyes
Beside quivering lips
and over her shoulder
as the earth's unforgiving boulders

Called her to fall again
and again....
Aug 2020 · 408
Bound to Downward
L B Aug 2020
Bound to Downward
___
Trickle--
bound to downward
  faceted presence of light
   weedling its yielded way
    to a lower level
     Smoothly pouring payment
      to tributary
Now creek is bludgeoned
by sudden stones
Stone remains....
Water is stunned plunder
     carried off
      toward hammering bastions
Poem written some thirty years ago
Jul 2020 · 127
The Moon Is Happy
L B Jul 2020
The moon smiles
wrapped in its bunting
of innocent blue
with fringe of coral and pink
borrowed from the ends of day

Wish I knew why
it's happy
Nothing new, exactly
Same old route across the sky

Same old moon
I don't ask why
but I can tell July
the moon is happy
with the stillness of stars
Fireflies decorating  
its dancing shoes!
Just noticing.
Jun 2020 · 362
Baptismal Fount
L B Jun 2020
Why do we go back to our saddest moments
when we need comfort
Maybe to bathe in tears...
a baptism
of rage
to blow the sides out of sorrow
to come to terms
with helplessness?

To get someone
to hear
maybe to listen
to loss?
Jun 2020 · 1.4k
When I Get Sad
L B Jun 2020
When I am sad
I get quiet

simple

Shake a little
on the inside
leaking to my hands

I get sad a lot
Hands shaking so I can barely write
Off somewhere inside
to some distraction
computer, ****, sleep, TV

There are no veins to open
words to fight
drugs to fix

Dying has a long-term contract

When I get sad
I get quiet

simple
Jun 2020 · 143
But I Forgot
L B Jun 2020
I forgot that we share nothing
but the sky at night
O wait-- not even that
The clouds are here
but not with you-- so
sometimes?

We have nothing
not even blues
or clouds
to hang on to
...or songs of love
No

Leonard's song, “Suzanne”
was always his
for me
I wonder if he ever knew
How much...
when I didn't even know?

He named His daughter after me
where he left his memory

My heart told me he was gone
to graver places

As I wrote
of love
in decades hence
I would mourn
brief moments by the sea
Go on! Go on!
Your life awaits!

while distance does its thing
along with time and rhyme
and white noise and music when I'm drinking
by myself

and
for a moment
you--
are here

I know the truth

...my wonderings
what you look like
doesn't mean a thing
your covid smile behind a mask
you take the only pictures
every trace
of puppy
strange proclivity
my darling curiosity
of art and thought
You take....

I wonder
what your breath would feel like
on my neck
should we share a moment close enough?
to know your scent?
and how in God's name
would I
love you?
Not a clue
what it's like to know your eyes?
were they for me?
some guy?
some girl?
And all the questions of--

Another memory
for time to rub away

But I forgot
that we share nothing
Not time of day, nor sky
a simple glance
nor graceful dance
What is this room that we are in?
And does it matter?
Anyway
If you are here
But no, you're not

but I forgot
May 2020 · 140
Memory
L B May 2020
Can I return you
to the shelf
Closed, Collector
of dust
to be thought of
now and then
when some reminder returns you
blood red and rampant?

Like outta control alliteration
***** so sweetly
I got myself with this one
May 2020 · 267
Nap
L B May 2020
Nap
A blue jay
Cries in deep background
of robin's qweedle day
A breeze moves the curtains slightly sun-
light scrawls
it's shadows
Soothing brighter
Lolling on a cushion
Late afternoon
of mourning dove
calls
to it's mate
meet her
on the edge of sleep
May 2020 · 1.2k
Toad Song
L B May 2020
Some Northeastern PA red wine
on my darkened deck
a dog barks
a toad sings
to find his mate
I am something of a toad too
and drunk enough
I will sing with him
when you've lost everything

the song of toad will do
May 2020 · 129
On Days like Today
L B May 2020
On Days Like Today

On days
When the thrush curls his song
among the buds unfurling
Lilacs float their fragrance
Past the trees, among the bees, between the roofs
Only distance makes it bearable
to be

...so called
Spring
in the chimes of breeze
Bent by the force of life
in disbelief

of its always
leaving

behind

the apogee
Now, past--

The fatal
wound of spring
May 2020 · 72
May Snow on Green
L B May 2020
It snowed today
May snow on green?
The growl of winter
threatened Persephony
if she raised her song ...
She'd be dealing with December's death
Who will not back away
from threats to everything
Still standing in his debt
Demeter
and he have a deadly agreement
May 2020 · 214
Worry
L B May 2020
I am officially worried about you.
Apr 2020 · 198
Blanket
L B Apr 2020
The night is ink
It moves around me
with it's broken heart
Apr 2020 · 209
Cat in a Time of Virus
L B Apr 2020
A weird fascination with swirling water
Paws on seat
he peaks over edge
to watch
the coriolis of his day
wash the concerns
of corona
a world
of death—
away
Poe occupies himself.
Apr 2020 · 121
Pick a Gift
L B Apr 2020
Commit
Three small tokens of remembrance
wrapped in copper, silver, gold
Oddly shaped that qualifies
as curious
They would like to see your dreams open
on Mondays
in the morning
I tell them
spring is only
painted upon waking
Bend the air for us
they plead
I tell her
how words come and go
Ideas the stuff of stumbled over
Strewn without a thought
to where they land
Tangled in the sheets
of unmade distance
to the bathroom
and back to bed
I want to linger here amidst
the ephemera
littered
Loss of words
In the dream on waking, I had been talking to the owner of a gallery.  O will never forget the place or art I saw and touched there.
Apr 2020 · 143
Unclaimed
L B Apr 2020
Good Friday 2020
_____

The wind groans with reluctance
Sends April snow in squalls—
a tossed and careless shawl
worn long and tired with this Day
No glimpse of sun
A dirge of snow surrenders on the grass
Winter making one more pass
among us
gray with grief

Due east of Rat Island

alone

Appropriate in name
Appropriate to this, the day

surrounded only
by the jealous surf
with hateful waves
surrounded by the howls of “crucify!”
“He is not ours!

They are not ours!
We are not ours!”

Send them all away
They belong to the island
to the ground
from which they came
Not for us to cry and claim

Their abandonment

Wooden boxes fill the
trench—
A Babi Yar
of our own doing
so it seems
and yet again...
Golgotha

In the bitterness
of heart there is

an island--

Hart—I think they call it
Both a prison and a graveyard
of NYC

A place “despised and rejected”

rejected of men
an island of sorrows...
and acquainted with grief....”

      “...I see myself an ancient Israelite.
       I wander o’er the roads of ancient Egypt
      And here, upon the cross, I perish, tortured
      And even now, I bear the marks of nails....”
                                   --Yevgeni Yevtushenko

...inscribed on the palms of His hands....

Again—

There is an island
where scores of the forgotten lie
He knows them all by name

Today it binds my tongue
with bonds of sadness
It has traveled in the tides
of time to find us

Our Babi Yar has come for us
to take us to Hart Island

Unmarked
Unloved
Unclaimed
_____

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:BabiJarravijn.jpg…

New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio acknowledged that more people are being buried at the city's potter's field, but stressed that only the bodies of the unclaimed would be buried there.
Apr 2020 · 600
Lilacs Along the Fence
L B Apr 2020
In my mind
They bloom always
...along the fence
of Mr. Chauncey's yard
who cut and bundled them
for us to give to Mom

And suddenly
purple has a fragrance
I can see...
and another name
that follows me
forever
infusing home
Insisting on it— everywhere  

...though it wavers
in the years
in clouds of Lilac bubbling
Memory's palest purple
amidst the golden-green

...I am a child again
running down the hills of May
dizzy
in bee buzzing
Floating
in the lush warmth
and parachutes of fluff—
Next year's dandelions aloft
in the ends of this year's spring

Turning ferns to wings
twisted into tee shirt sleeves
We fly by sheer will to do so
Pretend to hide our nests
in forest of the lilac
Soon I will bring them in the house again, so I can drift in the fragrance and wake to it, filling the room.
L B Mar 2020
Raking Under Forsythia

Who knows what stops the heart of a song
I take note

of tiny thud—
robin in the wheel well of my car

the limp head
of a cat’s prey

Sigh of wings
defrocked by power lines

Baby starling’s fledgling flight
falling short of a pond’s edge

That slate morsel unearthed
by the tines of my rake

…and the world is vacant for a moment

Grief ***** a womb of air
but how it lives— I cannot say
Upended creature of us

Stops the throbs that herald life
Noticing forsythia about to bloom and remembered this poem.
Mar 2020 · 109
Fool of Hope
L B Mar 2020
I plant seeds each year
a fool of hope
in hopes—
another life will bloom
taste as sweet as I recall
when I was a young
supple curls
fluid swirls
the rows of lettuce
poised upon the earth
To snap of bean
bathed in butter
tossed in breadcrumbs
Can't you just taste!
Tomato's robin breast
with arms to reach for sun
its roots to siphon rain
absorb the turgid strength
of storm
to life
so ruddy now—

without
consumed
within
Planning my garden that never grows too well.
Won't give up.
Mar 2020 · 290
Signed her name
L B Mar 2020
Spring signed her name
with the breeze
Sipping the moon
from a goblet of twigs
Gazed out across her path
Through the streets
By the houses of sleep 😴
Not in a hurry
Maybe no one will see her
dressed in silence and silver
Feb 2020 · 145
2:30 AM
L B Feb 2020
Night noises rather know
How to snap
fingers
for heat
While wind
hears puddles shudder
Bashes chimes
all to hell
Rocks the house with no one
in it
Rain pits a heart
Against ungodly hour
Sucky poem
Feb 2020 · 152
People I Don't Know
L B Feb 2020
To all the families of this loss: POEM
______

People I don't know
except for watching basketball
with a friend who loved the sport
The squealing of sneakers on floorboards
That airborne grace of long- limbs...
go on forever... stopped only
for that photo
His daughter's head, against his shoulder....
For the families of all involved in that terrible helicopter crash.
This was prompted by that photo of Kobe Bryant with his daughter in happier times.
L B Feb 2020
A recluse has no reason
No effect, nor place to go
No place to catch the eye
Nor show 
that I am ****
effortless....
in baggie jeans and ragged sweatshirt  
Beauty is for the forest
the ocean and the sky
I am an odd and solitary bird of brown
Only
beautiful in nature's eye
Not always lonely but often so.
Jan 2020 · 246
By the Wood Stove
L B Jan 2020
The wine, the fire
before me
in the still
night

...in me
behind me
through me
I sit here
running....
in my head
my heart

I will escape
it
to the truth
that some of us will make it

after the fire
Dec 2019 · 586
Coffee Date
L B Dec 2019
I want to see
your face, your eyes
Through the steam of our coffees
Know
every line
of your smile in sunlight
Trace my words along...
every micro-expression...
Every hint of hesitation
The fault lines
of our desolations
of our hopes

Desire--
of our fears
And, in all our failings
The apology of years
Dec 2019 · 169
Sense
L B Dec 2019
Yes...
We need all five senses
on our hopes and words--
to really know
how to make dreams bloom--

We need the sunlight of a touch
the water of a whispered
wind through apple trees in spring
to give the fragrance flow
Yes...

and add to these
the rhythms of love's ocean
that yet again  
and always--

Touch...
that sudden blaze
in catch of eyes across a room
Bring on excited flocks
and all those **** bees too.  :)
Dec 2019 · 256
Not knowing where I'm going
L B Dec 2019
Lost with you
Lost without you
Dec 2019 · 507
But the Grief
L B Dec 2019
I don't understand
so much
but the grief-- that's real  
Unexpected
Grief often comes that way

I lost the you I knew

Misunderstood-- the ways of you
Uncontrollable-- the heart of me

What do I do?
With all the love?
Leftover?
I don't even know what to call you-- in the quiet of my heart when we're alone....
L B Dec 2019
You will have to ask this now.
Dec 2019 · 462
It Comes Unbidden
L B Dec 2019
At first light
it comes unbidden

Mourning--
clenching deep
enough to sound your soul
Stone on string
sent to tell the depth of drowning--
in the tears
without a cry
weary beyond the sigh

No act of will
This weight--
gives no resistance
to the gravity of ocean's metal-gray
They seep along a sloping cheek
in silence

“Only lovers ever go this deep
It's strange,” they say
Though not written about you, it speaks to what I am familiar.  Fits today well.  I know we are not in the same place right now.
Dec 2019 · 347
In Free Fall
L B Dec 2019
It is right
that the day is gray
that the sun is not prying
No one should see me
mourning

If I didn't love you
What are these tears
in free fall
How do I love you now?  Not that I ever knew.
L B Dec 2019
...what I don't understand--
what seems a sudden unexplained cultural shift
related to who can afford it.

Whenever money is in the agenda,
my back hairs stand up

It is only by asking questions that others can grow to understand.
I have been following the news on Transexuality since it first appeared on TV and magazines.  It was a story about a little child feeling misgendered.  I was sympathetic to her predicament.

I Was Under the Impression that The First Amendment Was Important Here!
So I am under Review???
*******, Hypocrit!  Put back up, or I'm gone!
Signed,
The Prickly *****
Dec 2019 · 133
bi and trans??
L B Dec 2019
I do not understand transitioning
to what?
to hormones?
to surgeries?
to maiming?
mutilation?

If trans is not new
what did
other times and people do?

Perhaps they accepted themselves
no matter how born or grown
Adorned the way they wanted
created by the beauty of the day
among the company they kept

Maybe they danced in the  continuum
of their music and sexuality
somewhere between the male and female
There lies the mystery
I have thought about this a lot.  Most people land at the ends of the continuum, but a fair number scattered in between.  Seems "trans" is a modern medical/surgical construct, forced upon many by denial and lack  of acceptance-- to make a person look that way?  My understanding is trans is hermaphrodite.  What do I know?  Why would someone endure disfigurement to deny themselves and any future choices they might have?  Seems this is a medical money-maker that could destroy the health of many young people whose expression is NOT abnormal.
Dec 2019 · 317
About the birds of vespers:
L B Dec 2019
https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Swainsons_Thrush/
There are no words that rightfully capture this. Not even human poetry....
Nov 2019 · 369
Harvest of Life
L B Nov 2019
The Harvest of Life Exchanging Itself

     “May I help you?” – More busy in my voice than hurried. A woman points to a quart of peaches she's been studying.  “Sure of herself.” I had been thinking,  “She won't buy anything else.”
Such delicate fruit—one at a time they must be placed in the brown paper bags. I've gotten quick at it.  Then the Standard: “Couple of those are pretty hard yet; Leave 'em out overnight in that bag, and they'll be ready to eat... Anything else?”

     “No nothing more,” small shake of her head.

     Late afternoon at The Farmer's Night Market in Scranton-- the intense bustle of of the early day over –  with its frenzy of bills and change and bags; a new line of faces every sixty seconds, waiting to be waited on.  Questions, peering, turning the fruit to see if one side's as good as the other, and it always is as the Michaels sell only premium fruit at their stand, where I've been “City Help” for two years.

     “No, we won't have cider till after Labor Day when the Miltons come in.”  Funny, I'm starting to sound like a farmer – even know the apples by their different tastes, appearances, and order of ripeness.  There are summer apples, fall, and the winter keepers; and a smaller, rather homely variety, MacCowans, are the best for eating.  I like Cortlands myself.  They remind me of making pies with my mother – the smell of dough and apple skins – the little scavengers waiting for the cores

     The customers have thinned now, scurrying like loaded pack mules – off to their trunks and station wagons.  I can even read their minds!  They're planning dinners, canning pickles!  Roasting corn for cook-outs, planning novel ways to prepare the bounty.  I know these things.  I've been a customer for twenty years from mid-July till Thanksgiving.

     Wiping my sweaty forearms on my jeans, I try to get rid of the prickly-itch of peach fuzz – small price to pay for the afternoons's sweetness.  Then leaning back against some crates, I watch the edges of the canvas shelters flap – storm later?  This place, I was thinking, not much changed from the markets a hundred years ago-- the gathering of life to exchange itself.  We city folk – dependent, fume breathers and asphalt beaters.  Machine-like, silly with wealth or lack; paying, playing, dining out – driving our bad-*** cars toward some goal – never enough – just to wait for old age on the steps of “check day”  Not that farmers don't have their desperate years.  Weather can't be trusted, and there's always the hosts of gnawers, crawlers, and rotters – the unexpected that comes with living things whether cows or turnips.

     I've seen it here: life exchanging itself.  The early yellows and greens of lettuce, squash, beans, and berries; ripening to August corn, tomatoes, and feathery bunches of dill.  Then descent with cooler days to pears and apples, corn, and squash. Late September brings the Indian corn and pumpkins, cider, bushels of potatoes, frosted concord grapes, and zany gourds.

     With the return of Standard Time, come the bare bulbs that light the stands of produce.  At Ruth's the sign reads: “Order Your Capon Here.”  There are hams and roasts and sausage for stuffing.  The winter apples – “Stock up NOW!”  Ideas for holiday decorations; recipes exchanged.  Bushels and bushels for the canners!  And, one farmer sells those branches, heavy with scarlet winter berries for the city doors...  “We close the Wednesday before Thanksgiving”  I always buy those berries.

Good-byes are brisk and sweet – cold breath steams the air.  City and country marking their seasons –  their lives by the market.  The warm greetings of July, “So good to see you again!”
...Marking their lives.  Our children grow so much between the markets.  Generations exchange.  This co-op started eighty years ago, 1939.  For so long, it was the last and only, farmer-owned, open-air market in Pennsylvania.  

     Generations born; some pass or retire in the winter.  Nancy never seems any older than her smile.

     The vegetables always look the same – they're not.  They are the children of last year's veggies.  I suppose if I were to come here for the first time, I would think everything hereå has always been this way.  And, perhaps, I wouldn't be so wrong.  It really didn't seem so different or so long ago in late October when I first watched the farmers huddled around kerosene heaters in parkas, rubbing their hands together, drinking soup and coffee to warm them – stamping a little – pulling off their gloves, reluctant to handle the freezing change.

     “Can I help ya?”
     “Yes... Where's the best place to store potatoes for the winter?...I'll take that one...Yeah, You got it!”

     Dust rose from the spuds, tumbling from the basket to paper bag, and I propped them in my red wagon on one side of my infant daughter.  She was bundled in a plaid wool blanket and wedged between the corn and apples.  Her cheeks were pink with cold in the midst of orange, red and yellow – the colors of life exchanging itself.
Okay, closer to prose and dated a bit-- around 1993.  Published in ergo Magazine  and this week on Facebook.  Check in now and then.  Ya never know.  I share my thinking there.
Nov 2019 · 178
Who Do I Thank?
L B Nov 2019
Did Jesus pass his hand over my wi fi?
and it's working again
Must have touched me too while here
as I'm starting to feel well
after a month of illness
skimming the rim of hell
It's bad when you can't sleep or eat
or care for anything
When real friends
become more real
Hold you up with their presence
Nov 2019 · 294
Black and White
L B Nov 2019
Images tattooed in two dimensions:
Oswald's gutted fatal gape
Ruby's black hat (as seen from behind)
Black horror
in the sheriff's eyes.
L B Nov 2019
They die  
I leave a ruined edge
They leave with someone else
Tectonic plates mismatched
grate life on time's most vicious rasp
Some people never find their mates
left anonymous to pages
The empty internet
all their beauty fed to air

watching others celebrate
their joys their moments

I struggle on
Alone
My girls did give me a lovely 70th birthday at the ocean.  I will always treasure the memory and their efforts to make me happy in a beloved setting.
Nov 2019 · 195
Treasure
L B Nov 2019
When I have been most happy
time stands –  
still

yet races far beyond me  
Those memories become
the pebble jewels the bits of shell
glistening wet
from sun and sea

My pockets hold them deep
I walk along the sand
hear the waves--
I choose to keep

Eternity
The jewels of memory
Oct 2019 · 184
He Stills Himself
L B Oct 2019
He stills himself
inside me
and I don't understand
Waiting beneath his weight
I fully sense him
filled with him
as I am
the purpose
His warmth, his heart
his breathing
I feel him all along my length

His sudden motion
startles at the edge of sleep
shoving me further
into his deep
as if to rend me
like the river does the land
as if to sift me
as the water does the sand
Crying out
In the pain
Crying out for more of me
Pounding
Searching
Cleaving
Clinging to the child in me

The only moment
I am truly less
Than I am
L B Oct 2019
“...But Turkey is part of the story of Trump’s treachery. Erdogan, like Putin, Kim, and Zelensky, has learned that in the United States-- as in other authoritarian countries-- only one man really matters.”
_________

I wrote this after the brutal ****** of Jamal Khashoggi. I highly suspect the timing and the players of this backroom agreement:

The timing of Khashoggi's disappearance and the release of the Evangelical pastor, Brunson are not coincidental. The players were all there and the timing in place.
Here's what I think happened:
Turkey plays middleman, gets rid of bad press and high-pressure detainee, American Pastor Brunson. Saudi Arabia gets rid of its problematic critic, the newspaperman, Jamal Khoshoggi. The United States gets Pastor Brunson back plus the huge photo-op with Trump on his knees right before the election, claiming to his evangelical base, “See what I did for you? Does that buy your votes?” Everybody gets what they want, except Jamal Khoshoggi, who is tortured, killed, and dismembered in the Saudi embassy in Turkey.
Too diabolic and smooth for Trump alone. I think Russia and high level, intelligence brokered this deal. The agreement for it came between Saudis, Trump, and Turkey's Erdogan. Russians standing just out of sight on this – waiting.
_______
Gotta wonder what our economy is based on? More-so, the morality of our government. We should be outraged and deeply ashamed!
Feel terrible for his fiance--not knowing-- not even able to bury him.
Support the free press everywhere!


...Latest: Trump's response:

But Trump also reiterated his earlier concerns that any punishment of Saudis shouldn't impact trade with Saudi Arabia, signaling that cutting off U.S. military sales to the kingdom may not be an option.

"I don't want to hurt jobs," he said...."

Fast forward--
10-8-19:

Now we learn a little more about what Turkey wanted from the deal.  
Open season on the Kurds, anyone?

Trump's letter to Erdogan all but threatening him to cooperate with cease-fire in Syria allowing Putin into the territory he wanted.  Not sure who actually framed Trump's words as he is a a blabbering *******.  Jared perhaps?  

The letter does Not promise reward for cooperation-- but in carefully couched words-- threatens Erdogan that he could end up like Khashoggi.  As Michael Cohen testified, “Trump never says anything directly.  Sorta like a mafia don-- everything is in code”
I know it's not poetry, and it will be removed shortly  Poets traditionally have always had a voice and a love for justice  and peace, so I post it briefly.  Any other thoughts on this?
Sep 2019 · 302
I Try to Start
L B Sep 2019
House feels damp
in between
seasons of life
where I try to start a fire
Sky tonight was an amethyst fan
on a ruby line
the sun an ember
rolling golden years  
down the Hills of Scranton
to the city's lights
Across the town
toward that bend in the river

a driving dusk
Driving to the Hill section at sunset to pick up milk and eggs.
Sep 2019 · 319
Luis
L B Sep 2019
Luis was lured from the chicken coup
by a cold lunch meat sandwich
Luis who knew nothing of clothes or care
nor when to eat  
nor what to do
nor who to love
Nor how to plead
nor what to say

Where does love go...

Sweet love...?

...for the boy
...become man
"mentally deficient"
of a Mom
"mentally deficient"

confined to the scraps...
in that hospital
of days...
such as they were
of cold and lack
of anything approaching care
____

At a group home at last
with what was allotted, allowed
in a room of his own
A record by Patsy
played over and over and over again--

“Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling so lonely
I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so blue”

Why might-- your little heart be so broken?
Till the Sunlight came
in the woman
"The Mommy "
of dinners
and Christmas
and music
and showers and bedtime
Dropping your pants in the bank for attention of--
"Mommy"
whose scoldings you craved
whose lap was a pillow
for flicking your ear lobe
to smiles and giggles and singing
so desperately missed as she washed the dishes--

"Mommy"

of part time and sometime
of someone
who loved you
a while
while she could
in the aching of life

For what it meant for a minute
to Luis--
a lifetime of love in your voice
that the angels of heaven could never replace
so they envy
so you go
so she comes
to you Luis
a gift
of the God
who could never forget you

“I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying
And I'm crazy for loving you”  


To my daughter Phoebe, the bright and shiny one, for the time she gave in this group home.

Lyrics by Patsy Cline
My oldest daughter, Phoebe, worked here and loved them: Luis, Alan, and John.  I am unspeakably proud.

To all the underappreciated and caring residence workers.
Sep 2019 · 358
Definition of Injustice
L B Sep 2019
"If you have too much, You probably have someone else's"
The first time I heard this, I was stopped by the purity of its truth. Thought about it a long time.  It does not matter if you earned it by the sweat of your brow,  If your inherited it, won a card game, or came into a streak of luck.  In the whole world there is only so much wealth.  Those who control it have huge responsibility to give--to consider others. It is those with resources who must affect the changes  for good because money always moves toward more money.  It moves away from poverty.  The way it is.  That's all.  Reading today how someone is afraid to give up to taxes from what she earned or inherited-- or what grows by itself in the field of  usury.


"...Them that't got shall get; them that's not shall lose
So the Bible says, and it still is news
Momma may have....and Papa may have
But God bless the chile that got his own
that got his own...."  --Billy Holiday,  "God Bless the Chile"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_1LfT1MvzI
Sep 2019 · 265
I Will Be Sought
L B Sep 2019
...or I will not be
I will not beg for love again!
I am worthy of you
or I am not!

I know how to love
I know how to be alone
Sep 2019 · 278
Ruth to Boaz
L B Sep 2019
You returned from the harvest?
I uncovered your feet
to the night's cold
As I was told
to lie by them
in the chill?
To hope?

Yet another mistake?

A miscommunication?
An error in our ways?
You are the wrong man?
The wrong time?
Yet again?
Can this be true?

In my old age?

What now
will I do?
Sep 2019 · 440
Dreadlocks of a Scream
L B Sep 2019
9-11 POEM:

Dreadlocks of a Scream
____

Fever too high
Doze
hallucinate
doze...

...into the blue sky
and watch the tracer upward
tip
hesitate
and turn toward earth
Split apart
in the widening dreadlocks of a scream
One that took the whole world down with it

A woman is standing on an edge
hundreds of feet up in the open air--
Just standing....

“You-- who have mounted to the sky
will be cast down
with great violence
You, the golden cup”
set down

I am burning up at 103
Toss in the arid sheets
Chafed flushed cheeks
against this living desert pillow

Desert
Hallucinate
Can't get a GPS on where I am
or what's the time
But most of all – what just happened?

I toss and wake to slivered light
coming from another room
Hear the whispers
See their vacant faces
Must have walked into the den
Feel their shivers hush
My questions
Between the aisles of candlelight
and murmured prayers
I'm walking
Still in my right mind

“It's on the screen”
for all to see
without electricity

I have a fever of 103
--and the main question???

Why everyone's transfixed

Everyone
______

1-28-86-- Space Shuttle Challenger explodes, killing crew.

9-11-01-- World Trade Center
_______

“...Now so that your heart does not grow faint,
And you are not afraid at the report that will be heard in the land—
For the report will come one year,
And after that another report in another year,
And violence will be in the land
With ruler against ruler”— Jer 50:46

Where Did the Towers Go-- by Doctor Judy Wood
I know that one of the "reports" was 9-11.  Not sure about the other, but I sensed something about the Shuttle Columbia's loss was significant.  In any case we are on borrowed time if Jeremiah's words are right.

Dr. Wood's book is hard to get, I understand.  Much of her scientific observations are on You Tube.  She does not speculate beyond what clearly DID NOT HAPPEN-- but does attempt to understand "WHAT" happened without conjecture as to "who or why or how."  Her observations are from many thousands of photographs and other accounts.
Aug 2019 · 262
We Could Be Anyone
L B Aug 2019
Scuffing to where you lay in the sand
on your back on a blanket
eyes closed in sleep far behind
Not looking for me

I look out to the sky fading white
agitation of breeze
I sense it
Change coming

Settle beside you
watching the afternoon
as it leaves the shore lost
in my thoughts

I don't notice but feel
the warmth of you
curl in against me
my legs now
exposed, soft
with your arm thrown behind
to reach around hips
as if to ask
for something you cannot....

Tossing a glance with my hair's
nonchalance
Checking our camouflage
among beach-goers

We could be anyone
just anyone—right?

Turn from the world
from its judgement
Lean in close
Stroking silver of hair
with comb of my fingers
Feel your arm brush my chest
Noting the scent of you--
like caramel to melt
in the closing of distance
my mouth to your temple tastes

Unendurable
moment
surrendered to kiss
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