Dry eyed poetry


The night I died I wake up early — 5am — and wipe my withered eyes of sleep —

I peep out the at the dewy green lawn now beaded with moisture —and feel like rolling in the lush flourishing foliate freshly

The morning rain creates crusts of hoarfrost as the sun rays sprays its gay day light bright — into the hot rooftop — top

Leaning over my window sill I smile at the crow barking at the piece of crust I hold tightly —
Windows here are non drafted — non sealed — cracking — leaking — creaking and

I see next door’s open back gate

A deer frolics its way across the parkland and into the forest badlands

Recently I saw a cockroach appear — jumping past quickly as if he knew I was enemy number one

I didn’t try to get it — rather let it go along the way — across the bench and up and into the cupboard — not wanting to assess the mess it might leave after being in there

Bush ‘Dread Zed’ said he would be in the brushwood after ten only he didn’t make it again
Decorated and funny he lacks punctuality and reliability — erasing points off of my mindful mentality tokenistic consciousness

He left a gas map — mishap — catnap — fat-snack for the girl with the large rap — *** — sat —in her lap — Cat — a friend of mine who I occasionally sleep with

Gyani and Tao exercises for the limber and supple take out the late afternoon not quite as rough as past classes

Little do I have left of my Iyengar yoga instruction I did for over ten yearsor over ten years

Agile as a jaunty kid of eight I stretched — up — doing the crab — better than everyone else in the class — down into a headstand holding for over fifteen minutes then pitch a perfect posture poised in plain sight for everyone to see

The instructor liked to push us

But that was a while ago and existing (time) takes on a different meaning as you grow older

It appears as an extra second of life that you must have had but can barely imagine nor remember doing or living

Or driving in — or dancing with— or gallivanting over — or jumping out of the box— or stuck inside the head— or in a blank space —
Maybe just around the corner and back —
Clued to be fed up with exhaustion and desire to change — sometime — when?

Tommy draws a picture of tomorrow evening at dusk— wild eyed and smart I like him a ton —
I feel his head slump on my shoulder and tears flow from his pretty face — ***** dawny fawny drawny — until morn — down his cheek — like salty sea anemone

Hanging for a hit
Gear is easy to come by here
Otherwise you would go
mad

Insane language is spoken by the tongue of Eastern Europe — Old Czech Republic — Croatians — mixed with cheap red wine makes crazed gloating girlfriends scatter — plot the data in a bottle and fly away

Some folk say things like ‘don’t change’ when they really mean
‘I wish you would alter your clothes’

Sam dances around me like a dervish
A special man who was at the *** end — break up — early of his laddy to go
Futile bit — **** of a little kiddie — exited

Poor sore raw roar furore More tears are fraught with gaunt ****** leanings — meaning seeming yearning — gone boyo of 15 —

Sam reminds me of an older woman — wise wizened—

Grown men cry too during a

Guffaw — **** taking falling off hopping laughter

The end of the story


Mimi Bordeaux February 11 2025