Autumn, 2018

As the leaves whip downward
In the wind and rain,
So autumn advances toward an unavoidable
Bleakness.

Still, laughter erupts and points
To the beauty now.

***

Crossposted at joanvinallcox.ca 

Obligations Collide

When obligations collide, my heart unfolds.
I try to read what is written for tomorrow
without my glasses. I must decide.

This slippery road leads me into strange spaces.
The centre collapses unexpectedly, but the periphery
may knit into a new street view. I search.

Steering blindly by what is yet hidden
I try to avoid the road rages of others
and drive cleanly into the mystery.

Anger & Grief

Anger

What is anger?
The conflicting stories
and silences?
The moments blocked?

What is anger?
The empty spaces
where I turn away,
wanting?

What is anger?
Is it this anticipation of loss:
the burnt-out remnants
of old miseries?

***

Grief

What is grief? Stumbling by haunted spaces
and turning away from your empty chair?
What is grief? The evening silences scratching
the scabs of your amputation from me?

Sackcloth and ashes pool behind my empty eyes
imprinting memories where your smile fades
Where is the  garden you have abandoned?
What song is playing as you pull away?

Bleakly I walk and walk on muddied paths.
My stories now lost; their endings destroyed.
All sunsets are grey; all voices not yours.
There’s nothing I want and nowhere to be.

Then comes my scalding tears in their scarring tracks:
a slow stinging that solaces me in this deadened time.

Fury

Only when I am finally and irrevocably
awake
Do I sweep up my mistakes and
Bundle them into the oven where
I watch them shrivel and
Dance
And shrink.

I listen to their gasps and
Screams
And bathe in their
Arid aroma,
Shaking
My head,

My heart hurting.

 

Compostable Dust

I imagine death
socking me
as I change lanes,
my hair flying as
it did in my youthful dancing

I imagine death
dulling me
as I lounge
watching war and weather casualties
on the tv news

I imagine death
calling to surprise me
while I stretch in yoga class
earnestly trying to reach
more

I imagine death
as I count what years I have
possibly left
and know more deeply
that I am compostable dust.

 

My Body, My Mother

My body is my mother
And I don’t like her.
She’s getting old and fat.
I hide from her, ignore her
And frown at her clothes.
She doesn’t take care of herself.
She wants me to exercise her
And I don’t wanna.
She should take care of herself.
And not bother me.

My body is my mother
And I want to love her.
I want to feed her what she needs
And show her how to move and play.
It’s hard, but I need to feel her love.

August 6, 1945

I was conceived before the atomic bomb, and born after it was dropped, after we humans gained the power to commit species suicide. I weep for those who died and suffered in Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, and Nagasaki on August 9, 1945.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atomic_bombings_of_Hiroshima_and_Nagasaki