The spectre of your memory haunts me less with every year. Those things I feared so long ago, I no longer fear. I do not flinch in public when I think I see your face. No resemblance flags my terror as I wander place to place. To reinforce my courage, I have wiped you from my mind, changed my modus operandi to avoid your type and kind. Although you haunt my past, you have no presence in the present, where I admit your absence is what makes my life so pleasant.
The lustre’s left my hair and skin. I’m simply bottom drawer. My lovely high soprano voice has deepened to a roar. My joints are gnarled and knotted. My back is bent a bit. I’d prefer my stomach if I could see over it. To say I am exasperated would be understating it, but at least the truth cannot make the claim I’m skating it. I blame it on the influence of age, chocolate and gin. I’m simply not responsible for the shape I’m in!!!
The gentlemen surround me in an unbroken cluster, exclaiming over my smooth skin—its creaminess and lustre. My drawers are full of love letters. Exasperated lovers seek to win my girlish shape and woo it under covers. They fall under the influence of my winning ways. They do not guess my actual age when held rapt by my gaze. I do pilates every day and all my life I’ve fasted. Although I haven’t had much fun, at least my looks have lasted!
Riches may not always be all you might expect, for one thing that cash can’t buy is genuine respect. One, in fact, that we are daily driven to inspect daily causes masses to rise up and object.
Clearly something’s rotten, and we often get a whiff of that decay in Washington that we’ll prove only if we repossess the country that we’ve so clearly sold at the ballot boxes, making choices that are bold.
Our country’s not a boxing ring, a bout or match or race. Voting’s not a sport. It is a simple act of grace. We should not vote on people, entertaining or magnetic, whose ridiculous antics are crazy and frenetic.
Vote for those who truly have our country’s good at heart— those with sincere values: charitable and smart. Leaders not afraid to interrupt the status quo
to make our country more than a cheap reality show.
If you are considering not voting because you are tired of the fray or think it won’t make a difference, please read the following article and reconsider:
A fabulist can take the truth and spin it, change it, plan it, but then it is no longer truth, for truth is carved in granite. The real truth is indelible. Permanent. Etched in stone. Don’t mess with it and call it truth. You must leave truth alone. It can’t accommodate a stretch. It’s fierce in resolution. It’s not right to bend it simply to find a solution.
Truth is truth and fabrication is another matter, so do not conjure up a tale and claim it’s not the latter. Though presidents and kings and poets scratching in their dormer might for their single purposes stray away from the former, there must be someone willing to call out their acts as ruthless, for there’s no folly greater than to be led by the truthless.
This blog’s teeming with challenges by the day or week. I seem to find a new one everywhere I seek. This leads to combinations of words that are deplorable. At times the stories that they tell, admittedly are horrible. Still we keep on churning out this poetry and prose using all these silly words that other people chose. Why do we use these words that they give us fully blown? Because the alternative is thinking up our own!
We can’t codify the snowflakes nor put them into order. They fall to make a blanket or a pile or a border. They come in a blizzard and leave us in a trickle. There’s something about former snow that is so very fickle. It drips in drops from icicles and surges down the gutters. Our attempts to modify it end in futile mutters. I need not be prophetic to state the truth of snow. It starts out in a flurry and ends up in a flow.
Sitting up past midnight, we search our mind for facts, parting long grasses of the past for long-forgotten pacts of secrets kept from parents and long-forgotten games: “New Orleans” and “Send ‘Em” *. We comb our minds for names.
Of talents left to childhood, like flips off monkey bars. Adventures dreamed on rooftops and the back seats of cars. Favorite childhood dresses and jokes pulled on our folks. Afternoons in Mack’s Cafe, sipping on our Cokes.
Hot beef sandwiches at Fern’s and running up the stairs to avoid Mom’s fly swatter aimed at our derrieres. Childhood dramas staged in trees or in our backyard lawn. Teenage slumber parties that stretched out into dawn.
We journey through old albums, searching photos for any tiny detail that will open up a door. Each time I come to visit, we remember a bit more on these safaris of the mind that we both adore.
*These are the names of childhood games. Did anyone else play them?