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Departure

-for Baby, 2-10-86 to 9-14-12

His slide was steep,

over in two days as he went

from flight to fail.

His weak legs went first

so I carried him close to my heart

in a makeshift sling where he mostly dozed

until, with a look of surprise in his wide brown eye,

he lifted his left wing all the way up

and waved a final good bye.

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Departure

–for Baby, 2-10-86 to 9-14-12

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His slide had been steep,

over in two days as he went

from flight to fail.

His weak legs went first

so I carried him close to my heart

in a makeshift sling where he mostly dozed

until, with a look of surprise in his wide brown eye,

he lifted his left wing all the way up

and waved a final good bye.

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It’s finally come, at long last

it’s time to seek my overdue repast,

take a stroll over to the watering hole

hoist up a glass or two, and clap

my fellow napowhackos on the back,

strap on my open-toed stilettos

and have that dance with Dunc.

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Happy and sad, it’s a mixed brew

of feeling, this stopping for awhile.

Time to say goodbye and put aside

my pen and paper, take some time

to settle down and grow new eyes

before I look back at what I’ve done.

Maybe I’ll even be surprised and find

a nugget or two to buff to a shine.

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But for now, the muse is through,

the dishes are piled high in the sink

and the laundry bin is starting to stink;

my larder is bare and my home

is in a state of major disrepair, and

most importantly, I’m out

of booze and coffee and chocolate.

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So, without further adieu, I bid you all

a fond farewell until next year,

y’all take care

and join me now as I shout out loud,

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April’s over, Amen!

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At first you wait for the chaotic motes

to sink and settle; embrace for a bit

the aftermath of being cast aside

like a torn up doll for a new toy;

then you dig in and shore up

all the weak walls, patch the holes,

put deadlocks on the doors and windows;

hide yourself away inside your fortress

and tend to your wounds, lick them clean;

watch them caul over; gride your teeth

as you lie in a cold bed trying to sleep.

Time passes; the caul falls off;

you’ve started to sleep again but now

your dreams are filled with a vivid

red that wakes and shakes you more

than that martini you had before supper.

You relive the chaos yet again,

as you have every day since; wonder when

it will stop, though you know it won’t

until you grow a set

and unlock the door to your cage.

Therein lies the rub.

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Between weighted lids, my mind
floats above an urn of ether; my head
is nodding; and my feet are trussed
in leaden shackles.

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I’m so tired; I’ve been Sleepless
again, counting the shooting stars;
I’m so sleepy I’m a zombie robot.
I hope I get some sleep tonight.

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The stars stare down in sympathy.*
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“I’m So Tired” – The Beatles
“Sleepless” – King Crimson
“I’m So Sleepy” – Cat Stevens
“Sleep Tonight” – Rolling Stones
from “Sleep Tonight” by the Rolling Stones

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Late night and all is quietude

save for the singing crickets

and squeaky toot

of our resident saw-whet owl;

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I drop a pebble into the well

and watch the moon

do the wave with Orion.

How they dance together

can only be described as poetic.

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I haul up the bucket

and sip the sky.

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She’s a a ten pound, flea-bitten

fluff ball;  the untiring nemesis

of unwary birds and mice;

she likes to fang me.

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She likes to play with, then eat, anything

that moves;  uses the couch, and sometimes

my hose, as a scratching post;

climbs the drapes daily.

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I should have named her Bad Bess.

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Three mojitos to the wind and a fourth

oozing its seductive lure with drops

of cold condensation, begging to re-gloss

my warm, minty lips;

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today’s breakup fiasco fogs

and fades into tomorrow land, grants

me a temporary pardon to pursue a trip

to the circus.

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I spin on my merry-go-round barstool,

survey lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

circling like hawks, sizing up my will she?

won’t she? meter to see if I’m worth a dive

for dinner, and the band blares on.

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C’mon over here boys, wanna play with me?

But watch out! I might just kick you in the…

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Renoir worshipped us

but modern society pooh-poohs

our ample curves, our risen dough flesh,

our baby got back.

Heft, once thought to be the epitome

of good health, was a reason to rise

for many a Medieval knight,

but today we are seen as over-

indulgent, undisciplined, depressed.

We not-the-slim-cool are snickered at

by those bulimic stick chicks

and arrogant Jack Sprats;

shunned by the press and loved ones

who’ve been brainwashed

byVictoria’s Secret,

the 5 o’clock news

and the AMA.

While we, alone inside ourselves,

echo silent screams and live

in a small-minded world

manipulated by a gnawing hunger

to be loved.

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After flowers have died and dried seeds fall, and the life cycle resets.

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