~for me~

no food in this house, badly bruised fruit,
leftover congealing overdue-past pasta with ketchup and cheese,
moldy bread testing the outer boundary of edibility,
jeez, even gotta drink water direct from the tap!

the worn out endemic pandemic comatose wakes up next to me,
“even this fickle friend is thinking its time for them to go, who knows,
cause we no longer count the time, where time goes, it just goes”(1),
don’t want it to go, because the ideation of life totally alone terrifies

looking out at the water, waves relinquish their sooth-me-ability,
now, they looking like masses of commuters and tourists weaving,
pushing, on Fifth Avenue, everybody trys gain a step in this old get-
ahead life we used to liv, believing that the way to, the right place

a poet here has cancer, doesn’t answer me when I’m checking on him,
another has memory sickness, cannot ever let go of her life’s losses,
as well she shouldn’t, some losses are wars by definition un-winnable,
and me, drifting in and out of this poem in the early morning thinking

if I could get back to sleep, that’ll be a couple more hours used up,
don’t want to mislead, no answers any to the perennial flowering
question of where shelter can be found, this wretch like me, can’t see,
grace has fled (2), see it, rowing away, can’t blame it, I would too

so many come to me with pain, wasted opportunities, looking for
guidance, or worse, absolutions, the dishes in the sink, last weeks,
saying they deserve a second chance at a useful life and the coffee
machine flashes “Empty Grounds or Leaving Town,” a decent rhyme

don’t give a **** if you’re thinking this writ, gotta quit, too long,
take your tiring eyes and scram, skedaddle, mine until I get a decent
answer to questions that never let go, they’ll keep coming back and
somehow that prospect, is crazy way is comforting, for all parties

can’t let go, only thing that gets me outta bed, the need  reheat, reheat
old, cold coffee that someone stuck in fridge just in case, the electric
gets hurricaned, stormed, another tree comes down this time that doesn’t just miss the house, like last week, that a stupid way to die

answer to where shelter ain’t, gonna start a collection of awnings, keep one handy, no matter time and luck take me, a stopgap answer to the quest-ion at hand, I’m liking that word,  it’s emotive, aaawww-ing, comes ready, handy guttural name, & to the beat, flapping wind

thought I’d get answer by writing this all down, none come along, meaning I’ll write some more some day soon, when the eyes open, should they open once more-row, the questioning, the pandemonium blues, wake up beside me asking where I’ve been, they’ve been

waiting all night for some bad company.




notes
__

(1) “Who knows where the time goes” Fairport Convention
(2) “Amazing Grace” Judy Collins

looking fo a pinprick of blue
among the silver linings today
but can only see cotton candy white
and  flannel grey

set my plane to fly high and straight
but all it seems to do is fly in an
eternal, infernal figure eight.

cannot see the horizion
or sight the sun
flying without sight
Is like trying to run
with your legs hobbled

you don't ever  get far
and you inevitably
end up with a cut,
a bruise or a scar.

the men I crave
speak blunt,
wanting me for
my poetry persona,
strength sheer as a cliff,
me to be their tour guide to the edge,
my sexuality unabashedly to be their owing

they speak plain,
believing directness
is an aphrodisiac for me,
my style, direct unvarnished,
so that must be whom I am, surely

but they err deep grievously

I do love my poets so, the
ones, soft spoke, genteel, feeling
using first, no never, guile, words harmonizing,
softening the edges so smoothly rough necessary
for me to protect, confounding the harsh takers,
who never think to ask, never cradle, stroke,
don’t go below, see deeper that my nerves
are feminine, that pink is but a color,
that anyone could love, not an
invitation, a philosophy of
automatic surrender

now you know why I write poems,
to understand better the heart human,
ferret out the chaff, the bad, for everyone else.

#brandychanning

degree of overcast

so the day begins
and so will reman,
the week predicted
the same, only one
variant, degree of cloudy,
mostly, partly or just...

it saddens me deeply for
I contemplate all the lives
with this whether forecast,
or rather,
the absence of
whether,
the only variant,
the degree of overcast

9:34 AM
Fri Jul 17
Year of the Covid

six trees gathered, a single stand,
looking for a gathering, standing of four more,
a prayer circle to make, branch to branch
holding onto each other, to have their bark better
heard, the question on the table, today’s agenda:

why must trees die?

overheard their human querying same, the proud trees
too, puzzled, sending their inquiry to the heavens that
feed them never failing, water to quench a rooted deep
thirst, their role, job description well understood, purposed
to shade the world, give off fruit, so tasked, so asked:

why must trees die?

Caught the busy Lord unawares, dealing with seasonal pandemics,
endemic hatred from the frailings of  human weakness, who honor
pretense by their mouth moving, but don’t believe their enunciation,
oh! tiresome battlefront, millions of casualties inflicted on each other,
Lord could not countenance another self-interested questioning of his earthly architecture

why must trees die?

on a beautiful paradisal day, cumulus whites decorating a blue coloratura that never be quite replicated, quieting, five-sense waters at ease, minimal moving, lunching noon hour,the birds, insects, rabbits all retired to cooling reservoirs, munch, gnaw, pollinate, yet the trees misjudge the sun dial iris quietude in the manger, the grove, as the Lord’s good graceful forgiving demeanor, therefore shocking, disbelieving the unforgiving ruthlessness of a deity of love, so the

cracking of a single bolt of punishing, purposed lighting, that knocked all the trees down, single blow, roots embruing, ember glowed, a “sounding” the world hears unoften, unremitting, not understanding its other-worldliness, so rare appearing when an actualized answer is returned, declarative, tangible, glorious words:

because I am who I am, The Eternal, alone, who keeps the imperfect balance of all my creations, without oversight, asking only from them
acceptance of things beyond earthly comprehension...