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In March, after you’re gone

I mourn you now as the
Rites of your passing let
Me, permit me to mourn
You, completely, a little
At a time. Mourning, it's
A process, I say, a little at
A time but in all this time
I have mourned you, not
Completely but a little at
A time as I lost you, not
Completely, but a little at
A time. All this time when
You were still here yet not
Completely you, I mourned
You, losing you as I did, a
Little at a time. I mourned
Through laughter and tears
That never completely fall
As you slipped away, lost
To me, lost to yourself, you
Are gone now, passed from
This realm, no longer lost,
As you were when first I
Mourned you, yet lost to
Me. I will mourn you. Now
Featured

Mourning

I will mourn you when
You're gone, and those
Rites of your passing 
Allow my grief out from
The volcano the furnace
The seismic pressure
I am holding together
While you live each day
As less of who you are
Diminished, diminishing 
Lost but still here, still
Mine, not fully mine, and
Not always lost. Still
Funny, silly, bitter, and 
Yes, still sweet. My love
No longer the helpmate,
The lover, the champion
Of our lives. Still lost. I
Will mourn you now and
Then. I will mourn. Now

[Originally written May 27, 2024, but posted in November 2024]

Time enough

I long for time,
Reaching across
The table to grasp
At its keeper, 
As if I haven't 
Enough when time
Is all I have.
Time to think, 
To write, to 
Rearrange memory
There is plenty
Life is a long
Stretch of time
While you live
It. Shortened in
Retrospect, or
Not. There's 
Always enough
There's never
Enough. It slips
Or does it slither
Syncopated by 
The tocks ticking
Away minute by
Minute, its very
Precision a 
Rebuke of time
Wasted, misspent,
Of things not 
Done or undone
Gone in a flash
Lost in the hours
Unsaid or frivolous
Scolding will not
Bring them back,
Restore them.
You cannot keep
Time, it can keep
You, as it passes 
Not just in days
Or hours, seconds
But also in years,
Time holds such
Infinite variety
Its shape shifting
Hold this moment
These moments if
You can as they 
Slip like water
Into decades. 
Into memories of
Times passed, of
Time past.

With every hour

Upon awakening I quote
The Scottish play. Time
Creeps from, I say, then
Interject hour to hour.
Days, I say, are too long
I, whose mornings get 
Away from her, turning 
The corner at noon and
Too soon becoming an after
It's afternoon and where
Has my day gone, what is
It I have done with the
Promise mornings brought
How could it be that my
Leisurely pace sucked
Away the day's breath 
How could it suddenly
Be nearly two and I not
Ready to creep out to
Face the sunshine, I 
Misquote the Bard again,
From day to day, time
Creeps into all my 
Tomorrows. What have 
My days signified

Heredity

We are damaged by
The uniqueness of
Our parents. All
Of us, as they are
All unique, not at
All as we expected
Our parents are as
Different as each
Person is unlike
Each other person.
Our parents might 
Be accomplished or
Just eccentric or
A little unhinged.
We like to think we
Alone are special
We deny them that
Uniqueness we think
Makes us distinct
And special. We want
To keep that for
Ourselves.

There’s a lot going on

Understatements make odd headlines which is to say when you live in odd times, you go with what you’ve got. My source of inspiration for today is the inspiring Heather Cox Richardson’s morning Substack.

In the mire of regime news, ours, Iran’s, Saudi Arabia’s, and so on, we find stories of Ka$h’s bourbon. It’s literally a signature brand of booze for the 9th director of the FBI. But, that is not my point right now. I focus on the irony.

Edgar Hoover, old #1 at the Bureau, came to fame when Eliot Ness and his boys destroyed liquor stashes across America. Apparently, it is no longer prohibition at the agency. (I am well aware that Americans can have their whiskey and drink it too, it’s just a full circle chuckle is all I’m saying.)

The Saudis have dropped the mic on their participation in our Iran bombings. We can’t use their air space for that, it seems. First the Gulf Golf tourneys and now this! Iran is putting out some amusing tweets. The one I read in HCR’s post today was neither blood curdling nor blood lusting. Just referred to the failure of “Operation Trust Me Bro” to win over the regime or open the Strait.

Overhead

The clouds, full of themselves, 
Puffed up like cotton candy,
Looming overhead, more tasteful 
Than that sticky carnival abomination 
The sweet powdery stuff children 
Love and adults allow 'cause it's 
A special day. The clouds are
Always special, gracefully sitting
Overhead, puffed up but not so vain
As to make more of themselves
Than is appropriate and seemly

Once upon a time

You pass, as one does, a
Youthful woman, was that
You, way back when being 
In your twenties was real
Time for you, when walking
Coatless towards a party 
Did not send shivers up
Your arm and your allies
Carried beer and you held
The pizza box, every one
In this group gleeful and
Giddy with anticipation of
A good night out. Are they
All you? Passing time past
On this Saturday street as
If yesterday can be met in
Real time, you as you were
You as you are, a weekend
Stroll into what once was

Your life

Your life falls open,
Like a suitcase, what
Did you forget to pack?
The shirts rolled into
Neat rows, shoes wrapped
Sweaters, it might be
Colder than you expect.
You've brought one very
Dressy outfit, just in
Case. It's your life and
You are right to dream
Of balls and parties, of 
A time when that dress,
Wrinkle-proof can come out
With you to dance the
Night away, let it fall
Where it may, but keep
That bag close in the
Overhead compartment, near
Enough so when your life
Unfurls like a paper fan 
You have a carry on, packed 
Carefully with what you need
You forgot nothing