Moving out

 

OH! My chickens go flying past in the wind

Two brown flutters flapping into the oleander

Fleeing their coop-up coop in escape mode.

But they are just as happy going home

Finding soldier worms to warm their bellies as the cold settles in.

 

I flap into my yard sometimes too

Perching on a tall wrought iron chair to breath the fall

Tossing a rope for the silly, leaping chocolate Labrador

The little kind, the kind they use in gator hunting boats, so they don’t fall into the water and get eaten.

She can clear flower beds and birdbaths and fly down steps, not touching a single one

She can dance with the golden leaves and grab the pecans out of the tree

Crunch

 

I should get something to cook on out there

I should get a hammock so I can sleep in the night breeze

And watch the moon … or the clouds … or the moon AND the clouds

I should move away the dusty piles, last year’s Christmas ornaments, fix the hanging lights and put the wires up safe

I should collect the pecans, crack them, make baggies and cookies out of them for Christmas

I should dance through piles of leaves with the dog (but first clean up her poop)

I should paint the furniture, and while I’m at it, paint the peeling little statue.

 

Because

 

I love flying the coop,

Discovering the forest, hugging the grand kids and touching the ocean

Watching the bunnies and the catfish under the ramp at Elephant Butte

The history in Hillsboro, the Chinese colony, and the brothel

Flapping through the Flor-ee-da mountains looking for rockhound stuff at rockhound park

Talking to the stuffed animals at Adobe Deli, splashing in the Gila River and building dams with Sophie

I love my mother’s house, the sounds of the sewing machine, Bob Dylan and even the firetruck blasting by

Ho-ho-hos, mushroom hunting, riding in the snow in the buggy with my son,

 

But I am just as happy going home

Finding the chickens talking to each other

Sitting with Wednesday friends at Downtown Blues Coffee

The cat looking for food, attention, food in her loud annoying voice

The worlds of Star Wars, Dr. Who, the Addams Family, the baking tent and even the Tulsa King safely tucked away on the screen

Each piece of clutter, a memory

Surrounded by my ancestors, and those to whom I am an ancestor

And there is my iron chair and table out back

Where I should eat my dinner more often.

The mystery guest

The wind glided in the open door and blew open the refrigerator.

Out tumbled the fruit scattering strawberries, grapes, blueberries rolling across the green tile

And out flopped the watermelon,

Splat, crunch, squirt with sticky red stuff dropletted on cabinets, oven, island

The seeds slowly creeping down the sides of the doors.

The wind flapped into the open window causing the curtains to catch in a dust devil

It took papers from the coffee table and mixed them with the potting soil and leaves as the plants smashed down.

The television protested by cracking its screen.

The lamp shade lifted elegantly and talked the ceiling fan into giving it a ride.

Apparently, someone wanted a carnival.

The bedroom was the worst/best as the wind took a circuitous route through the heater/cooler ducts, winding its way through a funnel of silver foil to burst into the room.

It tried out the bed by lifting the quilt, tangling the sheets and fluffing the pillows.

The dirty laundry, clean folded towels and the dresses in the closet took to the air, filling up to dance and mix and mingle like some wild do-si-do.

All the shoes came marching out tapping their way across the dressers, the jewelry collapsed in a pile of despair.

Fleeing the room, the carpets in the hallway rolled themselves up and found their way to the living room to argue with the pillows from the couch.

Apparently, whoever was riding the wind that day, did not need to use the restroom. Thank goodness!

25 March 2020 - Today’s pick-me-up list:

• Steve Martin playing the banjo in the woods.

• Mary Chapin Carpenter with daily “Songs from Home: Live From My Kitchen”

• A great interview with Silver City author Catalina Claussen

• My golden front yard full of poppies

• My doggo, Ida, who flies across the yard chasing her ball

• Fresh eggs from a friend’s personal chicken crew for breakfast

Why am I angry?

I can't let go of anger today
Sending frustrated feelings 
into other people's worlds
like post-it notes of grr.

Little things,
I want to throw my phone,
I want to smash a face
or delete all the interweb fish that swim
into my life.

Building, pain in red here
where a heart should be
and flashing on the innocent
who can't help but misunderstand me

Because it is me I am yelling at,
me that didn't finish the book
didn't write Christmas cards
didn't forgive Nils
and didn't have children who would stay
but somehow must live their own lives.

How can they know
I am always frowning
at a world that won't cooperate
that throws dead cats in the way.

I am always annoyed
internally flashing
on the tiniest minuscule photon of a thing
because the anger
must externalize somewhere
Why not the sun?

I can't say goodbye today

I can't say goodbye today.
You are my hero and my light
my way to raise children and my nymph in the field.
You are my muse, my flower, my daisy chain;

Your smile resides in my laughter, your strong eyes
reflect in Estonian pools
Where your mother still sings
Your hair swings down my back every day and your heart bashes
up against mine wherever you are.

You are my mother, my aunt, my honor and my truth,
Chugging at my lines and holding my everything in your lips
with your loves who are my loves
your history which is my history
your past, which is my past.

I can't say goodbye today,
Can't look at your face and face you
I hold tight-so-tight to your beauty
I want to absorb everything you and put it in my cubby box
Where you will be safe, no departing, no more loss

I can't say goodbye tomorrow either
just forget it.

The Horrorcane

The horrorcane has cows with long horns in it

And

Vampires with their eyes drawing you into them. Step close mesmerized,

Swept up and dashed to the rocks

So the monsters can lap up your blood.

The horrorcane has motorhomes too

And

They are full of clowns, some are Pennywise

Smiling with balloons, grins and teeth but more are little,

Dolls, kinda Chuckie-like in demeanor, butcher knives in cute little hands.

The horrorcane is around the corner

And

The carpet has checkers, some maroon to match the dried blood

Where your name is written with the raven’s quill

Squeaky wheels heard above the din of angry voices laughing.

The horrorcane has tall ships swirling

And

A pirate with a guillotine has no control where the blade slips

The cost can be a finger or two, maybe a head

The sails wildly conceal green things unknown but stingy

The horrorcane twists in fury

And

Un-deliberately comes just for you

No waiting, the only question is what will fall on you

A whale? A bus? A dead superhero? A clue?

Patience

I have none.
This heart just wants to deal with it and move on
I don't know how to wait
when the heart is learning
somebody is hurting.

Why why
not to break people,
not to spill the redness that is heaven
into the night sky that is still so still
and no patience will do
only fixing
the broken
the sad.