Photo: Andrew Buchanan on Unsplash
Where the green grass ends
And the ocean grows
Is where she lies
And listens
To the crabs
As they crawl
And the fish
As they flutter
And the wind
As it lifts the
Wings of
Sandpipers
And spins
Seashells
On the sand.
For RDP Friday: Lies
(and for Kathryn, in my mind’s eye)
Photo by Aditya Wardhana on Unsplash
Perhaps it is, really,
By design
Where we are born
And how we live
And how and when and why
We die.
Perhaps it is
By fate,
That we can love
And we can laugh
And dream
And struggle to let go
Of hate.
Perhaps we’re each
A stitch
In the tapestry
Of an overarching
Plan,
(That we do
Or do not
Understand).
Yet still the truth
Remains,
That our strength is
Bound to fail at
The weakest
Thread.
And that we each have a
Part in
Whether we
Mend
Or shred
The possibilities
Ahead.
And just for fun, also for Terri’s Sunday Stills: Yellow
Photo: Brendan Church on Unsplash
Tim had a serious thing
For
Ice cream.
No matter the flavor
It was something
He’d favor.
His mama thought it
Extreme
To hold a lone food
Supreme,
So she came up with
A scheme
That worked wonders on
Tim:
Every new food she’d
Mix right into the
Ice cream.
So she fixed it with okra
And kale
And some beans,
And added an olive
And handfuls of
Greens,
And for his dessert
Even mashed in
Sardines.
And the boy ate the lot
Smiling full to the
Brim.
It was not until college
He caught on to the
Theme.
Photo: Cosmin Serban on Unsplash
The boat was old and holey, but that did not matter. They never intended for it to be sea-worthy. Haruto didn’t like to get his feet wet, and Miyu had seen enough leave for the waves who did not return. Neither one of them had a hankering for sea-sickness or for gutting fish or for seaweed tangling the rudder and weighing down the nets.
They had a different goal instead.
The neighbors raised collective eyebrows when the couple hauled the vessel, hull protruding in the air, baring barnacles and showcasing slime.
Haruto and Miyu just nodded, plopped the boat against the workshop’s wall, and disappeared into it without a word of explanation.
They didn’t owe it to anyone and they didn’t know how well the end result would be. Better to keep mum until they saw for themselves how well the idea translated from a dream to action. And the neighbors’ bafflement was fun.
For days they sawed and sparked and banged and nailed. One morning the boat got swallowed by the workshop with only a small bit of the aft sticking out. The next day it was the other end. The smell of primer and varnish and paint permeated the air.
The neighbors mused and wondered. A few doors down the street, Mrs. Adachi placed bets with Mr. Chinen.
Holes were dug in the backyard. A mixture was poured. Poles wedged in.
Mrs. Adachi’s bet went up. Mr. Chinen raised his.
Then one early morning there was a new commotion. Ropes and pulleys, a few curses, far too many bangs.
The neighbors came out. Offered a hand.
By the time breakfast was ready, the boat was securely perched like an awning over a diamond of poles. A hammock strung below, shaded but for a dapple of golden strips of sun. The rudder, painted ruby, pointed to the stars.
And for the next year, Mrs. Adachi was going to have the benefit of Mr. Chinen washing her car. …
Photo: Izabelle Acheson on Unsplash
She will not elucidate.
She won’t expound.
She won’t make plain.
There is, in her view, absolutely
Nothing she needs to
Explain.
There is the plate.
There are the cookies.
There was her mouth to entertain.
So, what does any of that
Have to do with dinner
Or with waiting for dessert
Again?
Photo: Valario Davis on Unsplash
“So how do you,” he asked,
“Know good
From bad?”
“By the heart,” she replied.
“By the actions that
Build
And prop up,
And the words that
Support
And patch the
Cracked places
Inside broken parts.”
“And how,” he pressed,
“Do you know what
Just needs
Giving up?”
“By the soul,”
She patted the warm place
On her lap.
“For breath
Matters,
And hope
Matters,
And kindness
Is superior to any
Pass-by-night
Emperors
Full of promises
Of might,
Touted
For our good
But seeped in
Falsehood meant
To bring on
Plight.”
He shuddered
And she stroked his wet cheek
And held a cool
Palm to his brow.
“Now sleep,
And let spirits
Of light,
Hold back the bad
And
Fill your cup
With good
Till the world grows
Up.”
Photo: Sven Brandsma on Unsplash
He reports first thing in the morning.
He reports again every night.
There’s little that could dissuade him
From being absolutely forthright.
He records every scene with a flourish.
His voice reflects every sight,
As with journalist’s flair
He spells data in ample delight.
He would not be distracted from telling,
The minutia has got to be tight.
After all, he is in potty training
And to him no discharging is trite.
Photo: Jon Tyson on Unsplash
As soon as he arrived, she would be able to make her exit.
Take time for herself. Have a moment of calm.
She was oh-so-tired. She urged him on.
“On my way,” he said. “A few more minutes and I’ll come.”
She waited.
The minutes then the hours ticked their slow molasses of seconds. Time puddled, sticky, in her mind.
Around her the demands of life continued and her body obeyed. Her hands found zippers and did and undid buttons and washed dishes and stirred pots and hung wet linens and kneaded dough and bandaged a skinned knee and broke up fights and interrupted arguments. Her mouth managed to answer questions she did not remember being asked.
At some point her eyes no longer rose to check the clock. The sinking feeling curled up and took residence inside her gut.
She fed. She bathed. She put to bed.
She rocked. She soothed. Not knowing what she said.
As dark deepened and the night grew long, she knew.
He would not arrive.
There will be only more to overcome.
Photo: Smadar Epshtein
She refused to stop her fretting.
He could not get her
To relax.
She was adamant the world
Was ending,
That they were about to breathe
Their last.
Nothing he did could
Distract her.
Not the honey.
Not the charm.
She was frazzled,
And he should have known
To not try
Bedazzling
To disarm.
Photo: jurien huggins on Unsplash
She would give him no quarter.
Heed no pleas or demands.
He will have to obey.
It was how it was done.
No experience? No matter.
He will not fall
Behind!
First the tasks,
Then the chores
And more lessons to mind.
Math and science
Books and rhymes.
This was school,
Not play time!
tucked away in the mountains
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