You come and stay for hours,
amidst the psychedelic flowers
and impossible scenarios.
Running past streets and barrios
with Joses and Marios, looking
for solace in a nightful of frightful
turns and plot twists. You’ve wished you
can finish a complete thought,
but your REM cycle keeps running out of gas.
In the foggy distance, a wail. It never fails.
It seems just when you get
to the good part of your dreams you have to depart,
trying to restart every nine minutes for an hour
until your snooze alarm comes back to call.
** I’ve been searching for a poetic form that could be considered “Polish” in nature. Apparently many classic Polish poets have adopted the Sapphic Stanza which contains four line with syllabic counts of 11(5+6), 11(5+6), 11(5+6), 5 and a rhyme scheme of a, a, b, b. Variations and further analysis can be found here.
In a melancholy mood… The brood is dwindling and what remains is kindling for my mind. Among a myriad of minutia I find memories, things my daughters possessed and left behind. Our nest will rest on “E”, and come December, I will be hard pressed to remember whose toys were whose. I choose to recall all the joy my children had, and they seemed glad to have what they did. No longer kids but adults on the cusp of their own dreams. It seems I get laced in nostalgia as neuralgia settles in. It would be a sin to let these things go to waste. It’s time for other young ones to taste the joy of each of these toys my daughters left behind. I find the memories take up less space and yet fill my heart so much more.
I’m doing great! I’ve lost some weight and of late I’m finding my mojo again. It hasn’t been easy (but then) nobody said it would be. I’m still the same old me, only better. I’m back to not sweating the small stuff. It’s enough that I sweat at all. Everything is small stuff. I’m far from buff, but don’t slough me off for trying. I’m relying on my health to be the wealth of me. I am firmly in the groove, not so new, but improved!
And it goes on and on, oh, watching the river run,
Further and further from things that we’ve done,
Leaving them one by one.
And we have just begun watching the river run.
Listening and learning and yearning.
Run, river, run.
~ “Watching the River Run” – Lyric by Kenny Loggins
Life is a river. Cut into the world swirled through valley and dale; pastures and disasters; ever-flowing. Going along between the banks, charted. Finding a fissure, it branches and chances to break free, new adventures to explore. Going on and on. Leaving our past on a fast current; leaving memories in our wake. Forsaking all else, Watch how it goes. Watch how it flows. Listening and yearning to learn all we can. Life goes on Run, river, run!
Out in front there’s a rickety porch, rough hewn timbers with tree bark still clinging to their fibrous skeletons. Rocking chairs and a stump table; shavings from a whittled branch strewn about the weathered floor boards.
Out in front there’s a tree; tall and stately, a monument to the longevity apparent since it was planted, a feeble sapling much like himself – thin, gangly and weak. It speaks of perseverance and dedication – fulfilling its station to mark time and grow.
Out in front near the tree, there’s a lake… a pond, really. Reeds and lily pads defining its edge. Sounds of crickets and croaks of bullfrogs, cicada whines reverberate in the late afternoon. Soon their sounds will be silenced as the seasonal change lumbers into the valley.
Out in front is a tire dangling, a rope looped over a branch of the stately tree. Dirt dug out, a furrow where feet dragging and kicking kept sticking the ground with a new found ferocity. Gaining in height and velocity, the children take turns launching, airborne to land in a heap with a thud; sometimes blood appears, the poor dears.
Out in front a wagon waits; flatbed secured, a hitch holding tightly. On a brightly hued morning, and without much in the way of a warning, grandfather had passed. The town folk amassed in respect; paying forward what had come around on occasion. Sadly in procession, he was carried from the house – a finality. Placed upon the caisson, a solemn silence ensued.
Out in front the porch remained; rockers swaying in the stiffness of a late breeze. Birds nested in the tree and the pond continued with activity and the sounds of life. No one sat on the pendulous tire as it swung hypnotic. The front door was ajar, but it was in exit, not as an invitation to enter. Out in back the fields had grown unruly and left to sit fallow. But, out in front a good fellow has gone.
For obvious reasons, it was called “The Comet” since riding on her would cause you to vomit. A high-rolling streak of yellow and green would make you take notice when it was seen. A wooden behemoth, one of the last of her kind, this old roller coaster was my very “first time”. On the Lake Erie shoreline of Crystal Beach Park in Ontario, Canada. I rode on a lark. A field trip from school had provided the occasion that brought our young group to this Canadian station. I eyed her from a distance, she held no allure, she beckoned me softly, that son-of-a-cur. But I just wasn’t biting, I don’t roller coast, if I even got on her, I’d surely be toast. I had that thing beat I was filled with elation, I was proudly avoiding a bad situation.
Enter the girl. Her name was Terry. She didn’t think coasters were the least bit scary. She glanced to the top of this treacherous slide then looking my way she asked, “Go for a ride?” My plan had been thwarted, I started to panic, I’d have much better luck going down on Titanic. But, machismo kicked in and it said without shrinking “Sure”, as my brain screamed “What the HELL are you thinking?” So we stood in the line for the cars to come ’round, (or we stood in the queue, if you’re true to the “Crown”) And often she’d smile every time she would glance while I stood there quietly crapping my pants. We boarded the car, strapped the belt, crashed the bar, as the pulley grabbed hold of the very first car. Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack, the Comet did rattle, we were just half way up, this was purely a battle. Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, she came to a stop, Perched ever proudly at the very tip-top.
And then it happened. The pulley released. (This was the part that I liked in the least.) With her arms in the air, Terry gave out a scream, which was just louder than mine (if you know what I mean). It looped and it turned as it made a few passes. And at the top of the next drop, I lost my glasses. My mother would kill me, and besides, I can’t see. And she was having the best time there could be. I almost lost lunch as I tightened the strap, and by some crazy miracle, the specs dropped in my lap. The ride came to an end and Screaming Terry turned meek, and she leaned up and planted a kiss on my cheek. But just as it seemed I had made a new friend, she said, “That was fun, let’s go do it again”.
Every year is a fork in the road. You swear you don’t feel old, but your feet are tread worn and you’d have sworn you had more gas in the tank. You have gravity to thank, or Karma, or “Big Pharma” for getting you this far. Were you a car they’d have traded you in for a sleek, and speedy thing, but it would be a greedy thing to make material things your sole desire. There’s still a fire in the hearth and nowhere on earth you’d rather be than the road you’re currently on. Your GPS is gone and your drive is just staying alive and avoiding any more detours along your journey. And you yearn for just one more mile to make you smile (and go in style) while on the way!