Back To Sleep

“You haven’t written anything yet!” the alarm for saving said. The page had been open for hours and hours and hours.
Gardening got in the way. And the mind stayed focused on that task, no stories seemed to be streaming in the brain while digging like so many other times — for instance, sleeping.
That was a good thing — a case of meditation.
Waking in the middle of the night, words fall out of the bed too — more awake than the person walking and sometimes the words are written down to turn into something come the morning. Sometimes they aren’t — written down, and it’s almost always cause for sorrow. The bed is too soft to grab the pen and the covers warm and the kitties waiting and eyes won’t open wide enough.
The words are clear, the body is simply just too tired — or is it lazy?
The crawl back in is heaven.
The kitties settle in again. Everyone goes back to sleep and there is hope to dream of something for the morning.
A tall, handsome man with curly light brown hair nuzzled in to kiss behind her ear and he whispered sweet things to her and laughed and twirled her around and grabbed her in as she tried to get away and then started cooking something for her.
That woke her up.
Why so often dreams of men?
Is she missing one?
It might just be.
It would be nice but only if he was as wonderful as the brown curly-haired tall man in the dream. Maybe someone not so tall or young like he was — after all, she’s old too.
He’d have to like gardening or at least like watching her garden. He’d have to like cats and dogs and pigs and cows and lizards and caterpillars as well as all the other living critters. He couldn’t drink milk or eat meat. He couldn’t hunt or fish. He’d have to do the housework, at least whatever he wanted done that she didn’t seem to get to. She might iron some of his clothes if he wanted, because sometime she likes to iron, but it couldn’t be on demand or every day — she likes too much to be free to play.
There she goes dreaming again not while sleeping.
That kind of man is as random as the chance that one was made at all.
But that miracle has happened. Why not one specifically for her?
Back to sleep to dream it may come true.

Off A Cliff

Last night was fun
So it was natural
that this morning
I’d turn around and run
There are things I like
about you a lot
pieces and bits
that seem to fit
So naturally
it’s easier
to hurry up and quit
You’re pretty too pretty
for me it seems
You’re far, far prettier than me
What a pitiful
misfortune of fate
I’d just get worried
thinking you were out
with a prettier girl
on an earlier date
if you should show up for me
too late
Or cancel for some elusive excuse
like a meeting you call a business
I would then for sure
feel treason
It’s better
we stop this at the gate
Either that or get married
as soon as we can
and then jump off a cliff
holding hands.

The Same Way

What do whispering bones have to say
in this blender of life
This pulverizer
Even outer of things
off plumb
As synthesizer
This random disconsorted symbiotic stew
with a twist of mixed-together
chocolate-covered chaotic
stunning bliss
This life that is
in a machine churning, churning
What comes out
The answer is
behind door number…
One, two or three
It’s anybody’s guess
But all bones know
they’ll go the same way in the end.

All The Gold

He came back, but not to keep
He came back over and over again, but not to stay
Just to view her pretty face and feel if she still loved him
He didn’t want to lose that loving pretty face
“You are so beautiful, I could look at this picture for hours. Problem is, I keep running out of Kleenex.”
Not the real
“Are you crying?”
A card with pictures he had taken
and words he had written
She could see herself without a picture
She didn’t feel very pretty when he kept loving her with cards and bitter wishes
“All the gold and wealth on Earth, could never equal memory’s worth”
and pictures he had taken when they were together
looking through each other’s eyes
He came back over and over again, but not to stay
He came back, but not to keep
He’ll see her pretty face no more
Gone with bitter wishes.

Outside This Window

It rained a little and then the sun came out and two fat, grown-up doves landed in the spaces created hoping for exactly such. They were foraging for seeds and it brought my heart the joy I seek, to know that I can help in some small way. I let the weeds grow — that was all I did — oh, and pulled Bermuda grass so that those particular weeds could grow.
Now the cats have entertainment from the window — chittering, they sit, on the same table where I am sat, hunting doves from behind the glass. The doves wonder if the stray cat outside might pounce but they have said that they don’t worry about the ones behind the glass or me, even though they see us seeing them. They get a little closer, scouring every inch.
My mug needs a refill so I start to get up like I would if I had a cat sleeping on my lap –ever so carefully so as not to disturb, too much, whoever I am trying to give full freedom of human action movements. The helicopter in the schoolyard turns its loud engine and they fly away anyway — the helicopter too — having just come for show and tell. The cats stay looking out the window as the birds fly off and then they go on to other things as well — pouncing and trying to fly as if they can. I’ve left the front door open just for them to see more even though it makes me cold.
Now it’s easier to get more coffee since things changed. It wasn’t me who made them move but now I’m just as free as they.
As I stand to go and fill my mug, my head turns just in time to see a pastel purple saucer from a cup and saucer set, (the cup’s here too, somewhere, chipped, taking up another place of honor), that Grannie somehow managed to get moved to me, sitting in the glass-door cabinet. How did she know just what to get to me or how much I favor pastel purple — I nearly didn’t know her? Her quilts and embroidery are the same things I love — pastel pinks, yellows, purples and flowers and some of those came too. I believe her memory is in my genes and I like what she liked and somehow she vibed me and made sure the things she knew I’d like arrived in a box from Nova Scotia after she left to find the margins in another world.
It’s the only noticeable purple thing in that cupboard — a china cabinet filled with lovely things to look at and think about using sometime for a soiree. And then I think I probably never will but it’s fun to think that I could get enough courage to have people around milling and engaging in a salon-type mingling — artist friends. I likely won’t — it’s all too hard on my emotions and why make yourself do something that isn’t favorable to your own soul? There are red and blue things in their too and red and blue make purple — my artist friends might notice.
I thought the helicopter landing earlier was the start of a war. I’m too sensitive to outside peace and quiet interruptions like basses in car trunks and helicopters landing in the schoolyard…and the, may I say, damn trains? Relentless trains.
It seems like there are giants in the world outside this window that seems safe to look out like the doves seem to feel safe to look in. But when things are less invasive, the doves and I commune — though they are often hiding in the trees now to keep from being pounced on by BigGrayStray.
I’m smelling skunks these days. It must be skunk season because I’ve caught a whiff a few times lately.
It’s a running joke between one friend and I, or is it me, because years ago — somewhere around 1977, we were driving down a back road in Missouri when we crossed the path of a skunk and both inhaled, sighed and said at the same time, “I love the smell of a skunk.” And I do and she does too and we always laugh about that time we discovered that about ourselves. I like the smell of skunk-weed too — they smell very much the same. I might not like it so much if I had to wear it — skunk perfume. I think it smells like rubber burned. At any rate, it certainly doesn’t offend me.
Smell are just other things for interpreting worlds — internal and external. Some smells provoke a memory, others help identify a possible trouble like burning food or a sweet perfume a boyfriend wore. Yes, he was trouble too. But sweet trouble — and smelled so good. Thirty years later, the smell can bridge the time and make you think you’re right back in it.
Damn trouble. I’d best just keep, looking out this window.

Forget About Counting

Fast life
Coffee filters
Mopped floors
Life goals
The cat’s been spayed
Whizzing by
Blinking eyes
Were your neighbors good
Did you have a good time
Ride a slide
Heart break
Dead again
Did you count the time stopped
waiting on a headache
Nice car
Fan mail
Picture in a magazine
Mug shot
Forget about counting
Forget about counting
What’s worth
its worth

Dancing Toward Tomorrow

Something to look forward to
the horizon
Does it make you want to move
Anticipation of another
from somewhere out of nowhere
in the distance
dancing toward tomorrow
for a minute in time
It may linger for forever
longing for another
such moment for lingering later
No bad news
even from a pretty mouth
is needed to invoke
the charge for distance
on a horse
to get there quicker
Waiting has its own
measure of perfection
Que sera
within the excellent chaos
always lingering.


Gosh arts

Image: GOSH Arts


Baby Diaper Pins

Veronica was the very first doll that I have any memory of. At some point in her early life, she got a haircut. My mother wasn’t happy, but she forgave me. I still have Veronica with her short do and she was somewhat small for a small little girl. Annie Laurie was next and she was big enough to hold just like a baby. She had a stroller too. She spent the first part of my life, rarely separate from me — she and Bar, who was my bear. He was bigger than Annie and since Annie had to go into a closet to be kept nice, Bar got to spend the nights with me.
When I was about nine, a friend’s older sister had a baby. She was only eighteen and it was quite a scandal — but we loved to love her baby. We got to use some real baby diapers for our dolls then too, whenever she got new ones. We were so excited — and plastic pants and real baby diaper pins. Diapers were fabric and required pins in those days and plastic pants — and we had to learn to fold them right. We had a blast — pretending to be mothers.
Why do girls play with dolls? Why do they think they want to mother? Is it because mothers puts dolls in their baby girls hands instead of trucks. It seems that girls, per se, gravitate to dolls no matter what.
Later I had a friend who had a minibike. She didn’t like dolls much. I played with her for awhile on it, but quickly lost interest — maybe because I knew I couldn’t have one too. I think I would have played more if I could have had one. I loved, loved, loved my pedal bike. But she went on to be very much involved with sports. I never was. I hated competition. Girls get vicious too and it looked ugly to me. I chose art.
I lost interest in having babies and being a mother too once I realized how exciting the world was and how much I loved art and wanted to make a living so I could do more of it. Kids and husbands looked like too much trouble and interference. People called me selfish. So be it. I didn’t mind much. The worst part of it was that employers always made me work holidays, weekends and evenings because, “She has kids.” I hated that and resented it very much.
Same thing again later with weekends off. “Do you have something special to do? If you do, we’ll schedule you a weekend off. She has a wedding to go to.” “No, I just want a weekend off,” was my response. Sorry Charlie. I said they should be on rotation. They said, “If you have something special, we’ll schedule one for you, but she has an event to attend with her boyfriend”. “No, I just want a weekend off so I can have a weekend off.” It didn’t matter. I had to lie. I didn’t lie, I fought and fought and finally became not a team player. There was no winning for someone who doesn’t play sports or want a weekend off to watch it.
So, once I got tired of playing games, I tried my hand at starting my own business. I didn’t like that much either. It all seemed like wasting precious time doing something I didn’t really want to. And…it required just as many games, just different — Walmart — need any more be said. Ugly competition rears it’s ugly head again. Always competition.
Now I just compete with weeds but not really. I let them have their way and the ants too. It’s hard to get in and out the front gate because cutter ants are in forage mode getting ready for winter fungus making. I just try to not let them have my feet.
A bee followed me around today. I couldn’t help thinking of the meme that asks that instead of being afraid of bees, to consider that they might have mistaken you for a flower. I just said, “shoo bee” — I couldn’t imagine how it could mistake me for a flower. It came back later, or another one did. I said shoo again and waved my hands in the air. That’s as competitive as it gets around here. And as for children, cats will have to do for now except for friends who brings theirs by from time to time. A dog may be in the future.

Into Something Greater

To sit sewing while black holes grow
they would know if one was near
so it is fair to sit and sew
except that it might be important
to know more than how to
if one does know
how to sit and sew
they stitch together
data from linked together places
to imagine
greater spaces
patch-worked wholes —
— a patched together hole —
with a micro-microdenier
almost to infinity
no greater than a proton
probably invisibly silky kind of
They say black holes grow
by turning something into nothing
but then they say
nothing is always and forever
It is confusing
It might be easier to just
sit and sew
sewing often turns something almost nothing
into something greater
But no
it is better to try to
stitch together
more about
how to know
if a black hole’s event horizon
might be getting nearer
No one wants to sink into a black hole
except for all the ones
who love and want to
know them
and if the black holes too
might have
turned into something greater
like what usually happens when one
sits and sews.


Image: Colorado Springs Pioneer Museum

The Earth’s Cores

The morning jumping of cats off the highest shelves that they can access so that they can then pounce on their human like they are practicing gymnastics and trying to stick a landing, seems to exert enough pressure that it could force the change of the direction of one of the Earth’s cores — unless, of course, the Earth is hollow — then they may just effect a China Syndrome.

“Get up human, I’m bored or tired of seeking your attention or I’m just hungry. That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“I’m up, I’m up!” exclaims the human. “Wait a minute, five more minutes…Pleeease?” The intonation going up on the last syllable, as if begging. “Who are you to boss me? Oh, yeah, right, you’re the cat’s meow. How’d I forget that!? You are the roost’s ruler — the Queen of Sheba — and  you, Mr. Mouser are the King of Siam, aren’t you?”

The cats didn’t even bother to look back smirking as they trotted off, leading the way to the kitchen.

It might be nice to be like a cat and have so little regard for other people’s feelings. Dogs seem to care. She was thinking how nice it would be to have a little dog again. Not that she didn’t love the cats — they are just so nonchalant. Cats always seem to be wanting to get away. Dogs, well, dogs seem to want to stay. Then she remembers how impossible it is to dislodge the weight of two cuddled cats from her feet each night she tries to sleep in winter or impossible to turn and no matter how she tries to scat them, they come back like rubber bands.

She then starts to wonder how anyone can know what’s at the center of the Earth. What’s the farthest ever drilled? What would it take to change the directional spinning —  or if it is hollow, is there a city in there? How come a cat hasn’t found it and come back to smirk and then not tell about it? Maybe one has, she thinks — cats are good at keeping secrets but they don’t seem to favor cold and isn’t the entrance at the north pole — or is it south? Maybe both and elsewhere, like Germany or Sweden? Again, ticking up at the end of a syllable for appearing to ask a question or intimating going further in the discussion — the way Australians speak in generAL — as obnoxious as a cat can be — sometimes.

The girl cat comes to cuddle on the crook of her elbow, mushing the spot she wants while purring. She whispers little words to make the cat’s paws curl and her whiskers tickle. She can tell that the little kitty likes it. So much for cats not responding — is that caring?

The cat jumps off once she’s had enough or doesn’t like the kiss upon her forehead.

Yes, it would be nice to not care about much else other than where one gets one’s food or whatever else they want. Someone says it’s hollow, someone says it’s not — then fighting, fighting, fighting who’s the rightest. It is fun to think about, without the fighting.

Then the cats bat each other and go off in equal and opposite action. They’ll come back again a little later for a cuddle and to rest upon a human’s feet assisted by the Earth’s cores — their little mass felt greater by its gravity. There will certainly be more gymnastics practice in the morning.


the cat's meow