Felling the Tree
Today my eyes teared over
as they bulldozed the tree
in the undeveloped lot next door.
It had to be cut.
A house was being built there and
aside from the trash it dropped,
It blocked the view.
Always the one to get his point across,
“I’ll tell you what,”
the contractor said,
“I’ll dig it up and plant it in your yard.”
But I didn’t want the mess of it, either.
I wanted the tree next door
where I could see it
without dealing
with the fluff in my pool,
the pods falling off.
That tree was a resting place for birds
which I said good by to
along with the tree.
Then, while I was at it,
I said good by to my cat
who had drowned in the pool
a week before.
Good by to my husband
who had hoped to see that tree
and the view around it
every day for the rest of his life.
Good by to my mother,
who passed onto me
her love of trees.
Good by
to all loved creatures
recently gone.
The tree was gone in a minute,
along with dry bushes, weeds.
The back hoe scraped the soil over
Coke cans, water bottles,
plastic flowerpots and chips wrappers—
the detritus from houses on each side,
as well as evidence of years of workers
who sat in the shade of the lot for lunch.
For a year or two
of privacy lost, calm shattered,
peace surrendered,
I would get new neighbors,
perhaps a friend.
Clouds of dust billowed
over my newly painted wall.
They’d repaint the wall
and plant new trees,
the builder promised,
as they bulldozed all.
The Rising
The clouds flow up the hills like the mist of falls
rising back up to the level they fell from.
I’m making my way down to the hammock in the gazebo.
It’s night, and I toe my way through the grass barefoot,
hoping for no surprises.
Far below, some hombre on a microphone pontificates lakeside.
He could be a circus barker or a kitchen pot salesman
speaking from a booth at a fiesta a mile below.
He seems to be selling something,
but perhaps instead extols the virtues of a bride and groom
or a fifteen-year-old butterfly
emerging from the cocoon of her quiencieñera.
I am deep in the groin of Mexico, swinging under the stars.
Up the hill in my house, the phone chrrrrs insistently
as I retreat from all public noises above and below.
My opening heart floats up as I sink deeper under blankets
to watch the clouds rise through moonlight.
I imagine my mother, my husband,
my father, my sister, my friend
and other loves both long and recently departed,
floating in mist above the busy world,
distracted, cushioned by their amazement
at finally rising above voices, gunshots, hospital beds,
screeching brakes, trees, mountains, universes, and their own shells.
How long are they aware of us, the hoi poloi below?
How soon fixed fully on their own rising?
Winter Doldrums
Crimson is reserved for autumn, December is spartan and white.
Frosty and slippery and frigid. Paled by the icy air’s bite.
Folks could be certified crazy for taking a walk on a day
when thermometers hit below freezing. You can freeze off your butt in that way.
Give me a balmy June morning or a sweltering hot afternoon
with a sunshade to keep me from baking and sinking away in a swoon.
It’s certainly better than winter with snowshoes and mufflers and chains.
If I’m going to have weather, I’d rather contend with spring rains.
Snow has the gross disadvantage of freezing off parts of your nose.
It means going out almost fully obscured with every part wrapped up in clothes.
I can put up with sneezing in springtime and all of the parching of summer.
Leaves falling in autumn don’t irk me, but winter is always a bummer!!!!
Prompts today are crimson, certify, frosty, spartan and reserve.
Christmas Mayhem
No holly’s hung, no lights are lit.
The whole kingdom’s in a fit.
The castle’s dark without a tree.
No decorations there to see.
Warn the palace. Call a jury.
We’re indicting them of worry.
What’s the source of their reserve?
What has quenched their Christmas verve?
What has caused the royal court’s
spirit to be out of sorts?
Is it the Prince or Queen or King
that’s robbed them of their royal zing?
One parlor maid revealed the cause
of their neglect of Santa Claus.
Their tree’s not up or decorated
because they’re all addlepated.
Reticent of jingle-jangle,
for their lights are in a tangle.
The queen’s all thumbs, the king has gout
and cannot sort his tree lights out.
The Prince is spoiled so won’t help.
They should dethrone that royal whelp.
But it’s the truth, there is no doubt
that someone has to sort them out.
Send in a tailor, schooled in string,
to come untangle everything.
Get a lumberjack to see
if he can cut them down a tree.
Hang on candy canes and balls.
Toss on their tinsel, deck their halls,
for royalty undecorated
will for sure be under-rated.
Prompts today are worry, palace, jingle, reticent and reserve. All photos courtesy of Unsplash.
Cee has said that her sister, who recently passed away, loved purple flowers. These are for her and for Cee. R.I.P. xoox. Click on photos to enlarge.
For Cee’s FOTD
Empty Pockets at Fifty
My pockets are turned inside out.
No riches do I have to flout.
This state of my intimidation
is perhaps an apt reflection
of my early hesitation
to obtain an education.
Perhaps if I had done my math,
I’d have pursued a richer path!
Prompt words today are pocket, intimidate, hesitation, spoil and reflection.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 