Blogger Issues and a Poem on Aging....

Has Blogger sorted us out? I must apologise to many, many commenters. Your comments were caught in that dismal dark hell of a spam folder that I rarely check but will do so more frequently. The platform has been iffy lately and I know Nick and Ramana have problems and now I'm seeing my own. Anyway, I see their heads are up today so maybe Blogger has fixed it. Vast apologies to Secret Agent Woman whose every comment for the past year has wound its way into that hell.

I wrote this poem that many have really liked so I include it here for your comments.

Reflection on Aging

We do not grow large as we age

We shrink in all things.

Our demands are the smallest of birds

Timid and shy, flying away

To invisible trees.

Our desires are few and private

Lying unfulfilled on bare ground.

Our opinions lurk, hesitantly fearful of

The prey of younger, sharper minds.

Our circles wink smaller in the fading light.

Shrinking until we are the only holder

Of youthful, joyful memories of beloveds

Long gone.

Hunching down to count pills, count money, count meals, count hours, count bills paid and unpaid.

Fearful of that nameless elder unhome of unassistance, unmeals and unindependence lurking out there somewhere

Ready to grab us by the throat if we slip and fall

Into helplessness.

Wisewebwoman -April 2022.

A Sliver of Life

I wrote this snippet this morning as I picked up the knitting after quite a dry spell and noted immediately how my mood lifted. Note to self: creativity restores your humanity. And our lives are just moments, if we think about life. This was just a moment in my day.

Herewith the sliver:

Knit Me A Scene
-------------------------------
Needles clicking
Clock ticking
Silent birds
In circling herds
Cloud the pond
In the beyond.

Day 45

Objet du Jour - old castiron railway clock in my office, it follows me around, loses time unexpectedly but responds well to TLC

I went through the email inbox this morning and answered everything I had been throwing on the long finger as "tomorrow" or "when life gets more interesting."

It is not even 11.30 yet but I was up at 6.30.

I find time is truly flying. I judge it by when I feel my weekly pill boxes. Yes, 2 large ones. Lots of pills. And as I was filling them today, Saturday, which is the day for filling, I thought: didn't I fill these just yesterday? Well no. The week slid out from under me. Also my mornings warp speed by. I think it is 8 but often it is closer to 10.

I'm reading this, sent by Niece and totally enjoying:

I'm playing Enya, it's that kind of morning. We've had a last outburst of snow last night. Enya always reminds me of spring. A long playlist. Sample:


I wrote a poem this morning. There's a poetry contest on CBC, deadline May 31st. I always hand write poems first. I like the sound of the pen on the page and how the poem can evolve as I read it and stroke and amend for clarity. Poems are succint. This one was complex and startling and I hesitate to share it but maybe I will eventually.

We've had no new cases here for 7 days now. So maybe, just maybe?

I hope you're all doing well out there.

Time Out

At times I am so overcome with sorrow and compassion for another that the only relief I feel is in a poem.

We can be unaware of our privilege at times. I am lonely very rarely. Many are lonely all the time. A huge hole inside them with the cold wind blowing through and hope a word they read about but have long abandoned as being applicable to their own lives.

I was quite devastated after this visit from someone who broke down in her despair as her last friend ("in the whole world") was moved to palliative care that day.

Her Grief

She wept on me today
With her broken heart
Leaking from her eyes.

Her grief led a procession
Of other losses, other hurts,
Other days, other cruelties

Pouring like a river
Over the bumps and
Potholes of her life

I do not know her
Well enough to
Hold her tightly

But I listened to
Her lament of loneliness
With my heart and hands

And stuffed my own avalanche
Of sorrow deep down
In my own graveyard.

I am posting this not as a "downer" but as a reminder for all of us to recognize our own privilege in the face of such appalling grief.

The Two of Me

I awoke in the midst of a frequent dream of mine. In these dreams I am always running, joyfully, arms wide open, sometimes leaping over a low wall, jumping over mossy hillocks and wooden fences. When I awake, sometimes there are tears on my cheeks, sometimes a smile on my face. I never had those dreams when I was actually running every day.

In my morning quiet time I wrote about this.

The Two of Me

In dreams I run and there's no effort to it.
In daylight I forget how it was to not think
About my body as I raced through my old life.

There are two of me now.
The remembered me.
And the one who owns her.
But can do nothing with her.

I know many of you can relate.

For the Price of.....

For the price of a beer or a fancy latte

Or a bag of cheap cookies or a cafe au lait

Or a magazine rampant with pages of ads,

Or dollar store gizmos: the latest of fads.


The main one I place right by my side,

The second one goes to the hallway outside,

The third one sits in the wee room to stay

And I ponder the wealth of my lovely bouquet.

Puerto Rico

Puerto Rico


Throwing up its everything
To warn us
Of foolish expectations
In this corporate climate
Crisis.

We are on our own.
Indeed.

Rampant capitalism
Pushing, shoving,
Destroying all
In its path

Tolling our requiem bell
In Puerto Rico

Basil and Clover

In late October
The indoor Clover
Charms me.

Clover?

Bought as Basil,
Which flickered and died
Much like my old flame
In another life.

In its place sprang Clover,
Nervous, tentative.
Until assured.
Then draping fetchingly

Greenily, greedily
On window ledge.
Smiling over kitchen sink
Nestling with Herb.

Clover clings tightly to life,
Thirsty, solid, faithful
Stolid companion in this
Far too empty house.

Joy. A Commoner's Perspective. 1.

For DS

Sorting
Cards
From last year.
And there you
Are

Once again
You fly me glitter
From your
Soul
Across

Three
Thousand
Signposts
Of our
Friendship

Blue-green
Yellow-red
Brush
Strokes
Caressing

My eyes
Bringing
An eternal
Second of
Bliss

A Poem and a Picture

The dogberries in my meadow tell me it's going to be a long hard winter.



What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.

And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.

It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in here, and I can't turn it off.

For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those

wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.

Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want

whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,

say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:

I am living, I remember you.

~ Marie Howe

Last Night

Her Feet

I remember kissing them
So tiny, soft, boneless
Toenails smaller than a wish.

Thinking then
They would
Dance and run
On golden sands
And splash sparkles
Around her of blue
Atlantic rainbows

It was last night
I saw them in
Oyster pink leather
Worn, used, middle-aged

And

I remembered kissing them
So tiny, soft, boneless
Toenails smaller than a wish.

July 5, 2015

I am stir crazy, so here's a poem.

**********************February************************

February is: a dull grey beach leaden with fog.

A huddle of birds under woebegone hedges.

Dirty snow marching alongside tread-heavy tire tracks.

Wasn't this the year I said I'd go south

And stay until the northern sun would beckon me

Back to its splendid silky summer of endless evenings

And carefree hikes on iris laden cliffs with the turquoise

Sea tossed into sparkles by the gleaming jet black hillocks

Of the cavorting whales and their retinue of hagdowns?

Fog with leaden beach grey dull a: is February.

Some Would Say

Some would say
We're compatible,
Fun and dance
Well together.

Some would say
We like each other,
And I've always
Wanted

A talky man.
I'm quite done
With strong
And silent

In this lifetime.

Some would say
He's kind
And honest
And bonus

Very tall.
Attractive.
And yet
Some secret

Is buried
Under that wide brow
Those kind eyes.
I feel it.

Why is he
Not telling me?
Meanwhile we
Talk on.

It's cheap,
Some would say.

Sucker Punched

The man so far away.
Safely Ontario-ed.
Remarried.
Odd thought
Thrown his way.
Full recovery
From broken heart.
And then. And then.
The grand announcement.
He and new wife
Moving to Newfoundland.
Soonest.
Door bangs open.
Disbelief enters.
Many, many WTFs.



Newfoundland is small.
Too small.
To contain us both.

Outside Looking In

Outside Looking In

Of all the slaps
Slung by love
None hurts so much
As a shove

Out to the blizzard
Deep with snow
Shivered by the
Sudden blow.

Baffled, hurting,
Cast aside,
Puzzled, frightened
Holding tight

To mem'ries of
Precious years
Which slowly melt
Away to tears.

Ungapped

Strange this.
We meet again, a year later.
And it is like we pick
Up the long conversation
Exactly where we left off.

I am old enough
To be your mother.
I know that never stops
Men who are old enough
To father the women
They end up with.

But it stops me.
I can't entertain such thoughts.
But you speak of moving here
Permanently.
And me helping you
With this and that.

And your eyes sparkle
And you tell me things
Did not work out
With that woman in Toronto
And could I read to you.

Please.

Sometime.

Soon.

As you love my voice
And the words I give you.
And then you'll tell me more
About Michael Collins
And I'll tell you more
About how I got here.

T Time

T Time

Toast,
Tea,
Thoughts.
Temptation.

Tarts.
Tamales.
Tomatoes.
Torrid.

Tortellini.
Tosca.
Tagliatelle
Thrill.

Time.
Trip
To
Trinity.

Tantalizing
Touch.
Testing
Trust.

Tears.
Temper.
Tragedy.
Terminate.

For ALS 1965-2011

The old, cold wounds
Open
In dead of night.

When the world falls
Silent.
The only sound

A lone sharp scream
Within
Lingering long.

Scraping the insides
Bloody.
Now nothing left.

No one to hear.
Unloved.
Used. Abused. Shushed.

Dream (E) Scape

A scattering, a smattering:
Thoughts flying hither and yon.
Was it ever thus and always
In the sanctity of my dream lobe?

The only place within me
I could ever run to anytime
Safe. Warm. From tiny child
To elder child still exploring

All that surrounds me
And bring it inside me
To examine in wonder, in awe
Then take what I needed

To shore me up on days
That are bleak and sad
And thick with the ghosts
Of booby-trapped memories.

The Box

The Box

Once a year
I open it.
And read.

I wish I could
Read through
Everything.

But try as I might.
Through tears
I can't.

It is all
I have of her
Now.

Her letters
To her emigrant
Daughter.

Full of news
Of homeland
Of life

On the lost
Side of the
Altantic.

Advice, concern
And most of all
Love.

Through her dying
One small triumph:
Baking.

Her words caress
On papery
Bits and bobs.

“You write well,”
“You're a good mother.”
“I miss you.”

“Thanks for the clothes”
“Write to Daddy”
“Another operation.”



“Please come home.”