nestling down with fleece and tea
winds down our weeknights
even your silence
roars of your truth and deafens
are all my words null?
not all who wander
take mountain paths sans compass:
note: your guides are blind
from that pulpit preached
truth told slant, muddying facts
and i sit silent?
makes foundations earthquake proof
a steel roof weathers –
thick walls withstand storm surges
shelter welcomes refugees
When things go sideways with my computer, Tech Boy glares a lot, jabs keys in rapid succession, and mutters about a new keyboard. I’m like the cobbler’s son without shoes – when something goes wrong with my tech, I delay intervention as long as possible, come up with workarounds and don’t often tell Tech Boy at all – for one thing, the man really, is very, very, very busy, and for another thing, I don’t want another laptop – I held onto my old one for ten years, and he’s already dragged me, fighting tooth and nail, into new tech. While we both use things until they fall apart, his stance on technology tends to be, “If something doesn’t work, let’s take it back to the shop and trade it in,” and I already have enough problems trying to remember how this laptop works.
But the third reason I don’t tell him? Because I’m STUBBORN. And oh, the frisson of joy when, without assistance, I figure out how to make something work by myself!
Is it weird to be grateful that I am stubborn? Because I am…
give me bragging rights!
it’s hardly rocket science
raises my fists in triumph
the human will reigns supreme
Autumn has finally, genuinely arrived with nighttime temps in the forties, and in other states, cities reporting rain and preparing for snow. We anticipate “sweater weather” but for me, it’s hats, tights and headwraps – it’s finally cool enough that I don’t sweat to death wearing them.
ode to orange & fuchsia tights
a slimming shade, black
approved by fashion police
(who needs approval?)
This past Veteran’s Day, remembering looked different to everyone. To some, it seemed a day to beat the drum for how we have made a “great” America. For others, it was the reminder of the horrors of war. For me, it was remembering our oldest family members, and realizing anew that there were some stories they never told.
straightforward: a waving flag,
a love of homeland,
a readiness for service,
gratitude for sacrifice.
patriots vary –
ancestors slaves or slaughtered,
clinging to broken pieces
gathering shards to make Home.
despite its defects
this is my Home, my country
flawed, like that uncle
at Thanksgiving who argues;
loved, like the kid’s table’s smiles.
Chōka – the long version of the tanka – consist of 5-7 on phrases repeated at least twice, and conclude with a 5-7-7 ending. I didn’t quite do that, and my envoi is completely a mess, but…meh, the exercise is to write gratitude poems, and I’m not going to worry about it.
a plague of fire
devours the world with smoke
and brilliant sunsets
Happy birthday to a boy I had a suuuuuper sekrit crush on at age 16. Ironic that I cannot consistently remember the birthdays of my three closest friends – or my nephews – but I can for now and forever tell you the month and year of the birth of one JB Moors. And I didn’t even like him by the time our paths parted!
Today, I am thankful for the persistence of memory… and that the human brain is a completely bizarre thing.
who knew, years later
that his name, unwritten still
would be imprinted?
mind like a steel-trap, risking
my permanent record, marked
For the past month, I’ve made a batch of applesauce on a Monday morning. I’m trying to figure out how to make enough to last us a bit, but at the rate the apples are coming in to the Farmer’s Market – some perfect and crisp, others just slightly overripe – it’s time to make sauce while the sun shines. Or something like that.
who needs pumpkin spice?
apples don’t – no camouflage
even caramel* apples
are no match for fresh and crisp
(*My syllable count for a tanka may differ from yours, since for me, caramel has three syllables; I know for others, it has two.)
Weekends are, for some, a time of rest. Not so much for Tech Boy, who will indeed work all the hours God gives, and then steal some from the devil. When he works Sundays, I hang out in the office, since sunshine puddles nicely on the floor, just under my desk, and my footrest works well for a laptop or book stand. (There is photographic evidence of this, but… you don’t need to see me curled up like a cat on the floor in the sun, do you? No, you do not.)
all I want to do
is curl up in the sunshine
with a book in hand
it is this, my lofty goal
as Sunday sunbeams puddle
This morning I’m racing off to a church in Livermore to be with friends, and to sing. I love, love, love the connections and community made within groups of musicians. You don’t have to know each other well to harmonize.
a chorus of laughs
greets an off-key, clashing chord
“that didn’t go well!”
breathe, listen, and try again –
bless’d be those notes that bind us