Roses Are a Treachery

I got my first smart phone four years ago. In the time between then and now, I have periodically opened my phone's Notes app and written out something that can usually only be described as nonsense. Often I'll take said nonsense and (try to) coerce it into something a little more sensible and - on occasion - present that attempt here. Today though, I think I won't. Instead, I'm showing you an inside glimpse into the jumbled junk drawer of my mind; sharing what might loosely be considered a poem, but is more closely akin to that speck of dust on the ground that wishes it was a poem. It was written in bits and pieces, at different times, and I don't remember what took place when I wrote each word. I can only say inspiration came from many random books and many weird dreams and many wispy, mist-covered thoughts. And I am guessing, at some point, roses. Make of it what you will. I love you all 💙

~*~

Delight is a double-edged sword

Sending ruthless shudders to the planet's core

Pond scum and monsters 

Trembling in it's wake

Roses are a treachery

Roses creep inside your mind

Like songs hell bent for stars

Roses on your feet are delightful

Underneath your feet they are too

Their scent is beauty dipped in wild

In a pincushion of insecurities

Prickled and rife with pins

I'm lying asleep and raindrops keep

Pick, pick, picking 'part my head

I dream 

Of tons of expensive 

rings,

old keys,

copper in resin found

 by a cold,

almost horizontal,

almost waterfall

I wake to a world of ice and fire

Perhaps the most delightful thing of all

~*~*~

*

Lead Apples

Guilt

is a sheared cliff

 quicksand and ice

littered with 

broken heartbeats

so, so cold ...

It’s own bitter grief

all encompassing

tasting of 

poisoned snowdrops

and 

lead apples

tearing

‘part your stomach

Life

is one shot

by a simple arrow

but no matter

where you land

you’ll always

lose

something

~*~

~*~*~

Crows

I had a different poem ready to share today. All somber and melancholy. But then I heard a talk about crows, their mystery and beauty, and decided to write something that was a bit more uplifting. 

I hope you, reader, are happy and laughing. Healthy and whole 💙

~*~

The language of crows

refuses to go unheard

insists on being understood

They will 

create chaos

make graveyards of the sky

until we listen...

...and we should

listen...

...for crows are hatched 

with hope sewn into their feathers

they soak up life, theirs eyes 

glinting with the mystery 

of pure freedom

talons dripping the change 

most do not know how to ask for.

*

They are our human selves transformed

into an existence that promises

something more than mere 

destruction 

We should be so lucky

to be born a crow

mischievous joy bursting from our hearts

as we fly through uneven wind

after a stoic eagle - quiet, alone, lonely

We will remind him, how to laugh.

~*~

~*~*~

68

Today is my dad’s birthday. He would have been 68.

Many years ago, I think I was 11 (but could have been 13), my dad told me that instead of a birthday gift, he wanted to go fishing. Just the two of us. We went dip netting in Soldotna. Two or three days. He was excited about the fishing and father-daughter time. I was mostly excited because (at the time) Soldotna was the only place in Alaska with a Dairy Queen and I had been guaranteed a blizzard. I’ll let you decide who had their priorities in order!

It wasn’t the most successful trip in terms of fish. We caught one, in the very final hours of the trip. But our few days there gave my engineering-minded dad the opportunity to study the processes and dipnets of the people who were catching fish faster than the blink of an eye, and when we went back as a family a few weeks later – newly crafted dip net in tow – well, let’s just say my dad’s observations served him well.

But I’m getting sidetracked…on this first father-daughter weekend, the fish might not have been raising their metaphorical hands for us to catching them, but we had fun. Sometimes I was out on the shore with him. Other times I stayed in our pop-up camper, happily cleaning it and making THE MOST ridiculous birthday gift out of the various odd items I'd gleaned from the camper's tiny cupboards. (side note – that was I think, the only time in my entire life that I ever happily cleaned anything)

 On his actual birthday instead of a cake, we picked up a gigantic cinnamon roll from the grocery store. Before we ate it, I took a picture of him, sitting at the camper’s table. It’s the picture you see here; it’s one of my favorites.

Since my dad died, I’ve written numerous things about him. When I look through them all, this particularly weekend is mentioned almost every single time. That makes a sort of sense, to focus on the moments and memories that always seem to sparkle when you look on them.

Not every memory is a happy one, of course. My dad wasn’t perfect, but no one is, and I was/am no picnic myself. But he was, I think, the perfect dad for me and my sisters. I miss him every day. And I am grateful for him every day.

Friday Reflections

The bay waters are mirrored silver

If I step in will I find Wonderland

I wonder

Wandering is pristine relief

It's own form 

Of sorrow

~*~

~*~*~