Thursday, July 29, 2010

The loveliest words

I grow weary of not being able to remember.

Each day that passes, I get further from them
and from what mattered. I become concerned,
at times. I cannot think this night of all the words
through all of the years that I have found to be some
of the loveliest in the English language.

I can see myself underlining them in books and poems
I've read, but they won't come to me.

The only two that my mind can get near tonight are
abalone and anemone. Oh, another: alabaster is somewhere close
at hand.

What is lovely? The place the word takes you? The way
it rolls off your tongue? The sound? All of the above?

Ummm...cerulean. I love that one. Azure.

Seem to be, for the most part, color words.

I have such a hard time being here. Bereft of my language.

I don't know the remedy.

Here's a link I found. Can't say many of these words: http://nigelbeale.com/2009/01/28/robert-beards-100-most-beautiful-words-in-english/
do much for me.

Sleep. Now that's a nice word.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Extremely good tasting food!





Saturday, July 17, 2010

Actually, some sleep

Such a rare thing. Hardly know what to do with
myself. Rested.

Long, drawn out on-call last night. 135 miles of driving.
Night falling lovely across the country. Corn high. Cows
and horses grazing. Lights in the houses starting to come
on. Always the danger of deer running out. One did. 30
feet in front on my oncoming car. More on the side of
the road. Families of them gathering in the dusk.

Then darkness and my destination. A hospital in the middle
of nowhere. Darkness into the sterile lights of the ICU.
An evaluation. A decision. An hour drive with my client
to the crisis stabilization unit. A dropping off. A moment
to be thanked and to feel grateful.

Back into the darkness but no longer on the winding
country roads. Parkway. Not much traffic. Still pumped
from the latte. Thinking about home. How good it is
to be going home. How my feet hurt from the long
day. How good the dinner I prepared tasted. How beautiful
the sun presented itself upon leaving my field of vision.
Home, to my bed, to my pillow, to my life. Not a hospital
room, not a CSU. Home. Where I slept well. For the first
time in a very long time.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Encapsulating the Day

Long day but no longer than any other, time
being what it is. Hard. His daughter dead. Her mother
dead. Another toddy while dinner cooks.

No plants beneath the carport this year, first
time in 22 years. Maybe they did not need to be
there. No herbs planted. No taking pains with

the tolerant ones who grow despite the weeds.
His daughter dead. Her mother dead. My father now a long
time dead. Green peppers, stuffed, and fresh corn

on the cob. A fridge full of veggies. All the healthy
plans. Needs of the body and mind. Other needs

on hold. Holding a pen, writing the words, attempting
to explain a mother dead, a daughter dead. A rose
bush waiting by the back door. Aroma filling

the house. Peppers! Peppers! No rain, the herbs
still hanging out. Body warm and unafraid now.
Let sleep try to interrupt. Let it. Fight. Rub

the fingers together. Keep the blood flowing.
Keep the food cooking. Keep the daughter
here, let the mother go. Go. Fan noise, light

noise. Light. Silent night. Light loud. Light
surrounding. Fishing? Not many times.
Threw them back. Could not understand

the piercing of mouth, the cruelty. Rainbow
trout sizzling on his father's grill. Fresh chives
scattered. Tears for his father. Let the daughter

go. The fries are cold, the drive long. Patient
now. Patient. This is life. The cilantro,
washed and dried, packed in a plastic

bag, the smell on the fingers. Aroma. Let
her go. Life is here and now. Life. Shells
from the eons worn around the neck,

a scarf knotted above the waist, eyes
as blue but tearing, tearing. Sky filled
with fluff. Sky all around. Sky unyielding.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

Honesty is The Cruelest Thing

I tell my dearest friend why I could not be there
for her while her mother was dying. I tell her that
tonight. I don't want to live in lies any longer.

I wrote in my journal that I was a fraud. I am thinking
tonight I am, as I am hurting for her, for her loss.
For not just losing her mother, but losing trust in me.

I just could not be there. I could not watch her mother
take her last breath. She needed me, and I could not
be needed that way. I think of all the reasons I could

not be in her house, hold her mother's hand, hold her.
I could say Not over my father's death yet. Social
anxiety (her family all around). My own discomfort

with mortality. I think "I don't want to be needed,"
but I know that is a lie. I fear being needed that way.
That way in which someone depends so much, loves

so fiercely, expects strength where there is none.
I let her down, not gently, not easily, but in one
swift blow, the archer's arrow in the heart of a dove.

If she never forgives me, perhaps she will be the better
for that. I am disappointment throwing out hailstones
on the ripe tomatoes, breaking the tender shoots

of larkspur, birdshit-covered chives on fresh green
arugula. Lying serves a purpose. Cocooned
from the harsh weather, hung by impossibly

fine threads, foolhardy in its naivety, it emerges
victorious and striped, spreads its wings, enjoys
its very short and lovely life flitting in and out

of the thorned knockouts hugging this house
as if it were a refuge, as if its inhabitants
(particularly an older white female) knew

how to give a damn anymore.