dirt - journalesque

There is a boot scrape outside my door. Damn thing sheds more dirt and dust than gets knocked loose surely. It is out of its’ time, and perhaps it was the romance of the thing that spurred me to bring it home. That and the grass of the back yard five dogs let loose destroyed too easy. Grass that law fallow, my attention on the roses. Try, try different, try more, try harder, this marriage can work, I said; my mantra.

In the end though, it didn’t, did it. I lost the house, the dogs gone with the man. Dirt and mud, hadn’t been much of thing since then.

Until my new girl and her little leash…

I knock my boot against the step, watch the dust fly as I scrape heel to toe, my darling girl sitting neat, gazing at the wonder of things in the air and her woman speaking soft and low.

No more cages where the big dogs eat our food, crowd us out, leave us in the corner.

come, poet

In a land more time and space, a galaxy close at hand, lay the thoughts you’re about to know but have never stopped to think.

the good wife

When she was married
Sunday mornings lingered
long into the eve
after Saturdays were spent
at the movies
in the shops
accumulating
life’s little things.

All the week, they
would sit
worn from work
watch the telly –
watch the telly –
watch the telly –
succor
what she cooked
in grand fanfare.

Then the years came on
seeming swift and so
after a few shows
he would remove
to another room
to play his games,
get checked on
get called to dinner.

To work, to store
to home again,
more time for she
to wash the linens
sweep the hearth,
put his dinner away
uneaten
and in the morn
untouched.

More years came on.

After meeting mates
for a few, he
removed
to another room
to play his games,
get checked on,
get called to dinner
arrive too late,
bemoan the days…

For she
in her eves
reverted to words
in a single sitting
in the room where
the telly gathered dust
writing
for her studies.

His days grayed
Her days brightened

He watched her leave
one day
from the window,
his next wife,
the good wife,
would nag.

in the garage

Robert’s papers were in a box
in the garage
near a make-shift table
on which were my skates
older than the child
I never had.

Still
what were they to anyone
save for him, dead,
or me, half-alive then.

I drug around these things
heavy on my heart

lost them
when the house sold

left some
behind a purpose

told them stay.

I miss my skates
I miss my brother more
I do not miss those things
that made my heart sore.

Slithey Tove

She will not go
with Grace
into her forties
but alive and kicking
dementia feigned
a trail of naked
two-headed gods
worshiped too well
with lip service
left a slumber
while she read
Jabberwock
at their feet
while she gyred
and gimbled
in their wabe.

I covet

In a dazed
sexed out stupor
in the dark
I found brief a mantra;

golden

and Frostily
as that first line
of Hinton read;

...into
the bright sunlight...

golden
Ra
gold

your flesh...

I covet.