What you don't know kills me,
And it's far too late to say.
My feelings are a stupid thing,
They've always been that way.

Holding back tears is always hard,
Especially in front of you.
Looking into your eyes I see stars,
But with you, I always do.

Today I had to say goodbye,
I've never been good at it.
No matter how hard I try,
I'll always cry a bit.

I shouldn't miss you as much as I do,
Even though my departure is nigh.
But if our friendship is good and true,
I needn't worry-why should I?

how many generations can
lay with you in your bed?

Matriarch Mama,
honorific due you,
title earned, not learned,
and now a teaching PhDs  of
Matriachal Science

let us have tea,
a tea party in you garden,
and the granddaughters
dressed in their church finest,
running noisy but that's ok,
mass is over, and the party
is now a backyard affair

me, a recorder,
standing in the corner,
invisible observing,
leaning on that old banyan tree,
smile playing on
my eyes,
counting
cousins daughters sisters,
and best of the best,
grand babies wilding in their Sunday finery,
even seeing
invisible fathers standing beside me,
but espy only one

Matriarch Mama,
sallying forth,
gunslinger of poetry,
nobody messes with Sally,
she is the brood defender,
poetess not
of the day

she is a
generational inscriber,
an author of a
gene pool of life's best,
her existence,
from heaven, sent a manna,
to feed-across-time
just one family,
an ordinary,
if such there was,

**Matriarch Mama

At the clubhouse‭
in Malaga‭
in the base camp‭

I danced and drank‭
in turn‭
sometimes‭
at the same time‭
sometimes I sat it out‭
at the bar‭
and smoked and drank‭
with Miriam‭

you dance good‭
she said‭

you reckon so‭
I said‭

yes you dance ok‭
she said‭
she sipped‭
her gin and tonic‭
and looked‭
around the club house‭

the disco music‭
is a bit old hat‭
she said‭

it's ok‭
at least‭
you can‭ ‬dance to it‭
I said‭

we sipped more‭
of our drink‭s
and sat in silence‭
for a few moments‭

Picasso was born here‭
she said‭

what here‭
in this club house‭?
I said smiling‭

no here in Malaga‭
she said‭
read it some place‭
I don't like his art‭
she said‭
makes me want‭
to throw up‭

you sure it's not‭
the *****‭?
I said‭

no I mean‭
when I see it‭
she said‭

I love his art‭
it speaks volumes to me‭
I said‭

poor you‭
she said‭
I see nothing in it‭

each to their own‭
view of things‭
I said‭
Picasso touches me‭

don't I touch you‭?
she said‭
wouldn't you rather‭
be touched by me‭
than Picasso‭?

depends on the touching‭
I said‭
he touches my soul‭
where would you touch‭?

she giggled‭
and sipped her drink‭
be telling wouldn't it‭?
you didn't complain‭
the last time‭
I touched or rather‭
we touched‭

she looked back‭
at the dance floor‭
and at people dancing‭
not my fault‭
if the tent‭
was too small‭
for much action‭
she added‭
looking back at me‭

small is beautiful‭
sometimes‭
I said

she gazed at me‭
with her bluey green eyes‭
her hair in tight curls‭
I’d let you come‭
to my tent tonight‭
she said‭
but that fussy cat girl‭
is sharing with me‭
always yakking‭
about her cats at home‭
as if I cared‭
what she calls‭
her **** cats‭
and what she does‭
with them‭
what about your tent‭?
she asked‭

no I got the ex-army guy‭
in with me‭
and he talks on and on‭
about his family‭
and how they don't‭
understand him‭
and how he got‭
chucked out the army‭
and so on‭

a‭ ‬Beatles song‭
was playing‭
I got up to go dance again‭

and she said‭
go dance Benny‭
go show them‭
how its done‭
she leaned on the bar‭
her eyes closing‭

I danced‭
drinking the dregs‭
thinking of the last time‭
I lay‭
between her legs.‭

there isn't a time in life
when our smiles and cries
are not simultaneous
unless we are morons.

my broadest stretch of lips
stalk pains

has my success made someone sad?
has it been at someone's cost?
has it eroded someone's happiness?

and when I cry
as sufferer loser

in the corner of my eyes
shimmers a smile

it's not the end

it's not the last mile.