For Cee’s FOTD
Kissing With Eyes Closed
Though she was not disappointed by the fervor of his kiss,
in fact it was misguided, for it was a total miss.
It landed on her lash extensions, eyelids to the tips,
but it would have been more piquant if planted on her lips.
He mopped his sweaty forehead, which was damp from the exertion,
then went in for another kiss in spite of her assertion
that he needn’t do an update. One kiss was quite enough.
Perhaps they could go for a walk or do some other stuff.
Thus ended their first date which could have been a fine romance,
if only she had thought to give the chap a second chance.
Kissing with eyes opened, he was sure that he would kill,
but, alas, I’m fairly certain that he never will.
Click on photos to enlarge.
For Monday Windows
Old people mumble and snicker and stare
at the last of my lineage ‘s bright lilac hair.
If I’m the most banal of all of my kin,
at ingenuity, she’s bound to win.
I’m reluctant to ask why her clothes are so worn:
so faded and rumpled and tattered and torn.
I immure my comments between lips of stone,
for she’s flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone,
with a mind of her own and unique from the start,
the last of my grandkids has most of my heart.
Please click on photos to enlarge.
Which do you prefer? Three different shots of the same scene. I couldn’t decide. Night Herons at rest.
Here is another. Egrets walking.
And finally: Three more choices of water creatures of another sort. Closeup or far view? Which do you prefer?
When I’ve drawn my final breath
and fall into the arms of death,
I’ll tell my life I’m through with it.
I do not give a single whit
for what becomes of all those things:
poems and paintings, bracelets, rings.
I mop my soul of all such whims
to rise free of my earthly limbs
on wings of whatever is left
to give my being lift and heft.
What if those things I’ve striven for
have merely been a bottom drawer?
What if it opens to set free
whatever there is left of me
and there is nothing else inside?
What if the whole of me has died?
What part of me is made to last?
Have I an essence that’s more vast
than accomplishments, adventures, things?
Some remainder that will give me wings?
Is there woven within me
something that will be a key
that will unlock the galaxy
that’s sleeping in the heart of me?
She looks so innocent, there in her little bed that she still prefers to the new bigger one I bought for her, her toys around her. Dreaming, no doubt, about her next naughty exploit or perhaps just remembering her last one.
Traviesa means “naughty” in Spanish, and it is Zoe’s middle name. Often her first one, because even after three months, “Zoe” never comes automatically to my mind, but “Traviesa” all too frequently does.
Tonight I looked down to see a much-chewed clutter of paper on the rug in my bedroom, along with Zoe’s favorite little ball that has lights inside that change colors when it is chewed or dropped on the floor. She was nowhere in sight, but the evidence was clear as to who was responsible.
It was my favorite photo of Forgottenman! It must have fallen from the shelf where I have a little collection of his photos.
When I Skyped him to share Zoe’s most recent mischief, he was trying to figure out if it was his graduation photo, so I pieced it together as best I could:
She shifts in her sleep, giving little running movements, dreaming the dreams of an innocent, but Moms know the truth about their kids, and fortunately, love them to bits in spite of it.