Ashes

It was a yard work Saturday —
for the record, not really my
thing — shrubs trimmed, azaleas
cut back. Then it was time to build
the fire pit we have been discussing.

A hodgepodge of materials were used–
bricks, old pavers, concrete blocks —
all the leftovers pulled from under
the deck to build a multi-hued,
multi-level perimeter.

The Georgia red clay was opposed
to the project, hard enough to deflect
the shovel, interspersed with quartz
and wandering oak roots.

How deep of a hole is needed to prevent
the spread of flames fueled by dry
remnants of storm damage
and a season’s debris?

The steam of the shower confirms
muscle overuse, foreshadowing
stiffness and pain and a night
of wondering, but no sleep.

Tomorrow I will build a fire
and feed it collected rubbish,
waiting and hoping for a phoenix
to rise from the ashes.

Burning Leaves (Photo credit: armigeress)

At dVerse Fred asks for a self portrait using the literal
or metaphorical. I tried to incorporate both into a
single day.

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Exchanging Recipes

They scotched themselves into
the corner booth — the inventor
of histories and the amateur
lover — where theories were
exchanged concerning
the quality of ingredients
making up the flavor
of their lives.

The results were…
inconclusive,
but several viable
hypotheses were
explored.

Misled

Men,
women,
damaged within by lust for —
a single wish —

power.

We are bound to our
favored flavor
of megalomaniac,
falsely believing
the thread of their thoughts
agrees with the way
we think (the ONLY possible
way for a sane person
to think).

They smile, give speeches,
shake hands, take the money
and make the promises.

All the while amused
when we believe their
purposes have anything
to do with us.

distress express (Photo credit: [mementosis])

 

 

 

 

 

For the Sunday Whirl

Each Day

She kept the sugar water full.
Each day checking the level
of liquid in the feeder.

The ghost waited each day
beneath the tree, each moment
in her presence a treasure.

A day, more or less, is not so much
when waiting for ones love to return.

But, the dead measure time by the
slow motion beat of hummingbird wings.

Each day an eternity awaiting
precious moments of bliss.

 

Annuit Coeptis

There used to be meaning
behind these symbols,
these mottos of a country
founded on faith and values.

Now, it is gauche to even
mention things of God,
offensive to many while
the majority is simply indifferent.

“He approves these endeavors”
was believed, strived for,
and then…it was decided He
was not needed, an intrusion.

We wonder why a country
struggles when providence
is denied and the all seeing
eye has been blinded.

Eye of Providence, The Great Seal of the United States.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For The Mag

An Old Haunt

This is not a cafe that a tour
guide would recommend
for anything more than shelter
from a passing storm. It has not
been on the ‘happening’ list
in quite some time.

A throw back to an 80’s ‘fern bar’
with peanuts on the floor
and patrons without jobs still
looking to score. Draft beer
is the drink of choice, served
in old, sturdy, glass mugs
with chipped handles.

I no longer come enough
for the bartender to consider
me a regular, but there is still
a bottle of my favorite
in the cabinet.

She never hovers, but keeps
my glass full, knowing I tip well.
She also learned — some time
ago,on a night of too
many — when she smiles,
her face
reminds me of you.

Fern Bar (Photo credit: robholland)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the Sunday Whirl.

Realization

Deeper into adulthood — as we
become our parents — we begin
to inherit the excuses of our
childhood.

All of the reasons we were told,
all of the lines we vowed
never to use.

Priorities shift when protection
is the goal and responsibility
a reality.

Did you laugh when you joined
in the budgetary battle against
the evils of a light left on?

There is an argument for leaving
the umbrella in the stand
and dancing in the rain.

Thunder is an advocate
of staying inside.

Gone

She pressed her hand
against my cheek,
looked softly into my eyes,
but was not able to muster
a smile.

It was her last attempt,
a final effort to find
what was lost.

Nothing was there.

She could not longer
pretend love was enough
when belief and faith
in the man was absent.

There was no look back,
no hesitation,
as she closed the door
behind her.

The scent of her skin
and the sensation of it’s
feel upon mine,
lingered but a moment,
to be replaced by
the stench of fear
and the touch of
death.

My death imagined as life goes on (Photo credit: Pickersgill Reef)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At dVerse, Stu has asked us to expound upon fear…

Failing to Dream

I remember well
the night we failed
to dream.

The walls fell away
to reveal a starless sky,
warmth left the world,
flowers withered
and died.

Morning came and you
faded like fog
burned away by the sun

after the night we failed
to dream.

starless night (Photo credit: CrazyFast)

Glances

She dances barefoot in the rain,
wearing pearls with her raincoat,

critiquing the ability of the sculptures
to samba and making time
for every mirror,
strictly to be polite, of course.

Thin lipped women hide under
the awnings of the cafe sipping
their tea while they avoid getting
wet. They whisper (and the cashier
sighs) when she waltzes by.

Cautious men hide from the women
behind curtained windows —

sneak glances at her as she
twirls though puddles and the
rain beads on her Mediterranean
skin like brandy syphoned
from a cask —

and plot their own
destruction.