The Witness

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The Witness

It was deemed that I was worthy
I took a vague vow of bearing
That my senses would capture
Catalogue the beauty
Override the pain
War analogies make me weary
(Messy mirror of the bloody real thing)
And yet, I am suited up, armed and ready
Battling as correspondent in the middle
Of this war
Rallying, as a witness
Recorder of the beauty
Crying out
I swear to tell the truth
There is beauty in the pain
Hope with me
We were called to tell these stories
Joy will not die, shattered
Scattered on the cynic’s broken

Battlefield

The witnesses remind us
Hand raisers, promising to tell nothing
But the truth
Hallowed is the ground where beauty lives
Buried are the memories
Mercy holds an olive branch
White flags fly from pole and post
My eyes have seen the glory

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Latin, Pooh and You

POOH

Latin, Pooh and You

My what strong genes you have
Tethered am I to you
By DNA
Born into your love for Latin and Pooh
Child of nearly another, child
Your words came to you, then, started their great exodus
Early
Dementia is mastering the art of thievery
We’ve drawn swords
Suited up for the battle
We rise up in tandem
Fight it off and hold on to syllables, dim and faded
Stammering and garbled
Eloquent elocution, always
Grammatically correct until the end

I’ve accepted the passing, in the twilight, not the dawn
Complicated
But the baton is here
(I confide often, blush at my age, late blooming wanna-be poet,
Fighting off shame)

My what strong love you have
Leaving breadcrumbs, poetic syllables
In your life’s wake
Marking the trail
Leading me beside the still waters
Leaving our time by the raging sea
See
I have learned to listen
To poetry and you
And to love Flannery and her peafowl
(I named a Black Maran after you)
Some things you tend to forget
But these are branded into the everlasting
World without end
Amen
Pooh, Latin, poetry, and Maggie the Black Maran hen

Once Upon A Discovery

There are moments in these days when I wonder at the keeping. The saving of the remnants. The scraps hang on and hang around. Guilt lays a heavy blanket over me and space becomes scarcer.

And then there are the revelations. The ones with the sound and smell of epiphany. The ones that say. One day you will know, the  saving and waiting were for the healing. And for an awakening.

I did a little unpacking.

And the memories found me there. The gaps of mystery will heal in their discovery.

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Once Upon A Discovery

Towards the bottom of the bottom
Near the must
(Mold smells like a memory keeper)
Beside the stubs and remnants of a life
The jade green French wired ribbon wraps your earliest days of me
For me
I knew it was your hand that wrote the to and from
Your lips, full and red, that licked the seal
Someone loved hard and long and with a lasting love

Buried in the back of a dresser drawer
(I write the stories I do not know)
But you in your youth left me clues of love and loss
Of pain and joy

It is my turn to follow bread crumbs of a life
To stumble on forgiveness and backtrack without you
If I tell you what you wrote in ’58 and ’59
The heart is now ready
But you’ve lost your mind, a bit
Dementia is a thief
Protecting us in ways which stretch us
Beyond our understanding
We both loved Latin
We now speak Greek, your brow tells me how little you now know

I dream about the lines you wrote
Save them for a crack in time
Wonder what you said of love
And me

The compass points to lime-green veined hands
Three generations mark the trail

We keeper of the treasures
We keeper of the secrets

Tread down a sacred path
Did you mean for me to find, the things that you have left?

Once upon a discovery
I met new parts of you
Gently I will travel
Savoring the stories you chose to never tell

May asks me if am I ready
The Spring will heal us all

Joining Laura

The Blues

In honor of National Poetry Month, my friends at Tweetspeak Poetry are gathering a collection of poems inspired by the prompt “Show Us Your Poetry Jeans.” Follow the link here to read the creatively inspired contributions. I am adding my name to the list of contributors who are digging down to see what comes out on paper when we write about our old blue jeans. Or his blue jeans. Or our “poetry jeans”.

Join me for some intriguing poetry. See you at Tweetspeak.
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The Blues

Perhaps I should have told you long ago

That I find your smile a thing of beauty (In my eyes)

Though your grin is more akin to a swamp gator

Toothy jagged line of metal

The mechanics of which keep my pride intact

After all you’ve done for me in love

Comforting me, expanding and contracting

Allowing room for growth

Never speaking of the sliding scale

Never pouting over your place at the bottom of the heap

Of denims, cornering the market on blues

Cornflower, cobalt, Caribbean, Carolina, Cerulean

(three letters in and you are just getting started)

Secrets follow you around

Shadowing a life lived in tandem

Pre-baby, baby you were there

Post-baby, baby you know how to make a girl feel loved

Winking at me with that one brass eye

(Never telling a living soul about the times I poked your eye out, let it roll across the old pine floor)

Frankly I am worn out

You must be too

But, baby I’ve got too much living to do to stop now

They can bury me in an old pine box In my old blue jeans( the number on the itty bitty tag remains our big fat secret)

Secrets tucked in all four pockets

Keep an eye on me in the grave

And we’ll archive the antics

Between we two, when we get

To the other side

Heaven knows

You’ve got a lot of stories to tell

Be a dear

And keep your lips zipped

(Goodness knows I would hate to send you off to Goodwill)