To be anywhere in the world
in any weather, to hold a book
like a child does and [moving] moves
from here to the flanks of the Vosges,
stares at a fresco by Piero
or hears an aria float out from a window
on the Coronation Route in Prague.
How fine it is to be us, to be
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on the water, our thoughts as slippery,
as fluid, our moods like gusts [of dopamine]
little zephyrs of enticement,
our happiness rising and setting
with the sun, the bright seal of hope
the dimming lamp of rest.
Being young, 21, is everything
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For wisdom does not come with age
Only tired bones and fade
And maturity means accustomed to
The crumbling of a once great temple, you
Invisible now, featureless, faceless
That’s the rub of the wrinkly skinned
Who live in seaside towns, with mothballs twinned
And all this whilst the beautiful people
Run like gazelles, screw like rabbits, have such delicious fun
God, it’s just not fair, though once I was there
In the class of being young, 21
Ocean to horizon…
land to horizon…
a woman stands
She stares at the distance
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and dreams of where
driftwood was born
as its temporary home
snags her shore.
Woman’s white hair
wisps across like fog
on mountain top
lifting, trailing mist,
mop of paralyzed
particles hiding eyes.
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disturbed by wind;
to opposite shore.
Pessimism is natural, like Type-1 Diabetes, liver, heart disease. The Caddy, Miata, they’re not there because you’re now half-full or half alive, but -dead. Drive.
Read more "38 Dollar Store Candles"
Prescience The sky’s a graveyard full of ghosts and fossils. No one’s dared to bury barley; it hasn’t rained in thirty days. Neither almanac nor bible tells how to predict an ending. I thought I understood the lifespan of a star, but I was wrong: their deaths are expanding, infinite; I’m the thing inconsequential, impermanent. […]
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Chairs Rest Like old married couple almost holding hands two lawn chairs rest at lake’s edge. Arms spread in anticipation of sunset each evening before frogs launch into serenade, and waves lap against shore; sound of kissing. Diane Webster‘s goal is to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life, nature or an overheard phrase […]
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Becoming Eve My mother wanted me baptized with the middle name of Eve. It was 1953. The priest would not hear of it. In a covert nod to Church authority, she settled on the diminutive of “Evelyn.” I can’t recall exactly when she shared this anecdote with me. I do know I was old enough […]
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Below is Part 8 of 16 monthly installments for Visitant. ◄◄ Read the prologue / introduction ◄ Read Part 7: Twist: In Parts What happened to those swell analog T.V. game shows with big-box prizes—Oneida ware, chinchilla furs, avocado-green refrigerators? Plenty of work remains for Mother, but Queen for a Day with host Jack Bailey […]
Read more "The Jill Hill | Holding Patterns: Dowries"
Below is Part 6 of 16 monthly installments for Visitant. ◄◄ Read the prologue / introduction ◄ Read Part 5: Gulled: Flights of Fancy Peeved with William Shakespeare, I login my password, Motleydots, and google backstory on the pungent potherb, Rosmarinus officinalis. For remembrance, says sweet Ophelia to Hamlet, a Danish prince and the lousiest […]
Read more "The Jill Hill | Rosemary Tisane: Cautionary Aura"