Welcome.
What a better way to embrace sleep,
A deep satisfying sleep,
Than with poetry.
Words that move us and words that move within us.
The following poems are intended to relax,
To gratify,
And to ignite.
There are messages here we want to take to heart,
To share with our innermost self.
Words that will speak to us even when we breathe softly and soundly in our sleep.
Before we listen to the poems,
Let's listen to our breath.
Inhale,
Exhale.
Once more.
Inhale,
Exhale.
Settle in,
Get comfortable,
Prepare to rest.
Remember when.
The heat of the noonday sun has nudged us,
Mother and daughter,
From dining room to deck.
The outside air is heavy,
Shadowed,
A still green tree dapples,
Towels tell us faces.
We are finding rhythm in the back and forth of the wicker rocker,
The sipping of tea turning tepid,
Unnoticed.
Our conversation turns to recall.
Remember when.
I tell the story of my father,
Your husband,
A monthly poker game,
A player whose name is no longer known,
Perhaps never was.
Leaves the table,
Heads to the bathroom,
Thinking about two pair,
Aces over nines.
Raising the stakes,
He unzips his pants.
Zachary hears the toilet lid rise.
With all the experience of his nine feline weeks on this earth,
He races,
A fascination with the toilet bowl.
But he has misjudged.
His timing is off.
Nameless zips up,
Flushes as Zachary dives into the bowl.
As gravity pulls him down,
He lunges upward and out.
The poker player sees only a flash of fur,
Mottled wet with tree.
He screams,
It's a rat.
Everyone jumps from the table.
Zach jumps into my father's arms and we laugh.
Does it matter that the memory is false?
A well-crafted anecdote to bring a smile,
A new memory for my mother,
For now.
Or that even if the retelling of a treasured story truthfully,
You will forget in a minute.
Or two.
Bragadocio.
Sounds like organic lettuce from Southern California.
The kind pretty people eat with a fork and a knife.
Linen napkins and champagne flutes,
An aura of laughter,
A hint of condescension.
So I looked it up.
Knowledge is a comfort food.
Unearthed,
Unhelpful synonyms.
Bombast,
Hoxalorum,
Fafalonad,
Magneloquence,
Radicchio.
But I know this intrinsically.
For what I am not,
It's the guy in the bar.
There's always a guy in the bar with the beer and the swagger,
One imported,
The other innate.
To call him cocky is a compliment.
Lustre and itch he doesn't want to scratch.
Like the sage at the workshop who doesn't fill in calendar blocks.
Instead,
Creates a circle.
Time is fluid.
And I wonder if we are intended to swoon in awe at his presence.
Wonder at the loathing that rises in me,
Whose only hot air is gastric,
Who crushes the seeds in the rhodomontade before they have a chance to grow.
There is even my aunt with the hats,
Panama,
Pillbox,
Panache.
People comment and I feel uneasy for the attention she draws willingly.
I cannot understand this pull to center stage.
I prefer the wings,
Where ambiguity sits in the comfort of shadows cast from the light.
Yet somewhere an image rises,
Refutes condemnation,
Crows loudly.
Remember Colleen,
The colleague who strutted shoulders back,
Chin up,
Eyes scorching.
She paraded even to the coffee machine,
Even when the mass in her face spread.
When skin sagged,
Lips went limp,
Cheekbones labeled medical waste.
Her left arm still lifted as if anchored beyond the fiancé who fled.
Define anyone to say she wasn't sexy as hell.
Ode to M.
Night Shyamalan.
Today I became invisible.
This is my 2020 superpower,
Uninvited,
Yet all too real.
A gradual metamorphosis.
I see now in hindsight,
No metaphysics or exploding worlds,
No ringing of the bugle,
No senses tingling,
No deflecting bracelets to mark the occasion.
A flash of time.
60 years in the making.
Here I stand sans mask and tights,
Slightly stooped,
Laser corrected vision,
Trying to untangle this web of confusion.
Yesterday,
On my daily planted,
People nodded as I walked by.
They saw me,
Apologized as they bumped me accidentally,
Waved from across the street,
Parking lot,
Grocery aisle,
As if seeing me for the first time.
There you are.
Little did they know my real identity waiting to emerge,
Silently,
Relentlessly,
Without aid of alien spacecraft,
Radioactive spider,
Or Amazon queen to coddle me into my new persona.
Today is August 22nd.
A new me is sculpted from clay and tradition,
Expectation,
Indifference.
Now I walk into rooms,
Unnoticed,
Cloaked in forceless fields,
Shielded from sight.
I see animated faces looking in my direction,
Hands at their sides,
Eyes focused elsewhere.
Today I turned 62 or 58,
71 perhaps.
Age is irrelevant once you are invisible.
If only I were bullet proof.
Yellow brick road.
See where it led Judy,
To the lap of some withered man,
Hiding behind curtains,
Fairies,
Balls of fire.
Disembodied,
Bloated,
Venerated for the misperception.
A shiny path filled with promises,
A scarecrow,
Cowardly lion,
And tin men,
Testosterone.
I promised my path would be different,
Was promised more than diamonds,
Rubies,
Emeralds.
Here I am,
The end of the road in sight.
I feel Judy's breath on my neck,
Pressing me forward,
Pulling me back.
She's off to see the wizard.
Me too.
Two doors down,
Sorting clothes in the little bedroom while you lay two doors down,
Waiting to die.
I take a soft pink pullover and fold the sleeves.
Undo,
Redo.
Three piles.
Save,
Toss,
Goodwill.
I am Donna Lee.
The light in me sees the light in you.
We are one.
Sleep well.
