Long distant parenting

(written when my son was serving overseas)

The sun has set again
and the pale small half-moon of late July
is almost down as well

The days grow imperceptably shorter even as we melt in three digit heat
Asparagus is thick and wooden and shipped in from the North
For rhubarb time has come and gone,
The last Arizona peach shrivels unpicked on the tree.

Childhood over, above my head the babies dodge about
No longer distinguishable from the parent
Sweat beads on my forehead as I perch still foci in my swarm of gnats
Watching the bats fly.

Inside the house, laundry quietly awaits its attentive turn
And tonite’s dishes soak away reheated debris,
So many important things to do
places to go
people to be.

But time itself must wait as I hear your electronic voice
and let the miracle of
telephone connect us
for both our hearts to hear

“I Love You.”.

CC

I Care What You Think

One of the luxuries of accumulated age for me
is how little I have come to care
what others think of me
of what I own
wear
do
or not do.

Not to be confused with not caring what others think.

I care a lot about what others think.
Truth like a stool needs at least three disparate points
to balance.
I read the words of those like me,
but more importantly I seek the truths of those very different from me.
I read books from all the sections of the library
and I read from title page to index to acknowledgements;
I read all sections of the newspapers
Excepts the sports, only reading that in baseball season.
I read graffiti in the bathroom and CD liner notes.

I compulsively care what others think
and how they say it.

I listen to conversations I am part of,
I listen conversations I am not part of, just proximal.
I listen to NPR news, All Things Considered and sometimes
I listen to Howard Stern.

I love to know what you think,
what you believe,
what your eyes see when they look at this world,
what you smell,
taste,
touch,
feel.

But I don’t care if you think my listening to the Carpenters is cheesy,
or my dancing to Fergie is not acting my age.
And I will tattoo “Nomad” on my arm.
I will read Emerson mark my place with a dog-eared “Adventures of Green Arrow.”
I will eschew the brilliance of “Into the Wild ”
and make you watch a marathon of PowerPuff Girls.

I will laugh too loud sometimes
And eat strange spicy foriegn foods
And drink too much rum
And then flirt with men
So young they will humor me
and flirt back and talk about me when I leave.

And I will care about what they say when I am there
And maybe read the books they mentioned
Or maybe buy a brand new CD
because I care very much what everyone thinks
Just not what they think about me.

CC.

MORE, Please.

More

Shiny magazine covers and
building size billboards all scream out their prophecies
American consumer religion sanctifies
the message
We all need more
we need more directions, more faith, more prayers
higher cheekbones, bigger houses, smaller asses
All of the things money can buy
and we can buy it all
Faith in a book, health in a drink, a bottle of Love
body by Bobby
things, things that money can buy
are the things we are made of
the essence of you or I.
More, more, more…

And a lifetime I’ve spent in priding myself
on being above
this greedy accumulating philosophy
content, enough, happily poor.

But I want to finish my Gratitude Journal
and have another glass or two of rum with friends
Hold my as yet unconceived grandchild in wrinkled arms
Run a marathon, sail my ship to Worlds’ End
Visit Antartica and learn to speak Chinese

How humbling to learn as I face this part of me
That I am not so different from any western “You”
The trappings of the greed, these things I may eschew
But the philosophy has encultured every pore
Like every edacious American as I face this end

inevitable mortality

I find all I want is more….

Midwinter

 

Midwinter

 

Frost lies white on the ground like my memories of snow
Or the Oak King’s processional cape in cactus times.
So few angels I have seen since then,
those days when booted mittened feet and hands
Spread wide in new snow Dance of Heavenly Joy,
and smells of mothers’ baking Pannetone signalled Holly’s end.
Now Mighty Oak is brought with the lightest brush of diamond dust
That drives us into winter coats I’d never have worn back home
Until the frost obscured the windows view almost till noon
Its four AM and the dark again grows short tomorrow light
But tonight the Sun is underground and dim, a seasons gloom
Its four AM and I am only now returning home alone
Having safely born upheld by friendships arms and firelight reminds
The trip around another turn of time.

 

CC


 

 

Life’s Unexpected Images

Life’s Unexpected Images
Mirrors cannot reflect the inner eye’s ageless vision
of unscarred body and auburn hair of my twentysomethings I still see when I see “me”.
Old eyes look instead to corner creases of fading blue that have seen too much
to scarred heart and chest
and the short salt and pepper hair
reflecting back at me, so ordinary.
And if I am that nondescript and middle aged nurse that others see
what happened on this journey.
I thought by now I would know more
be more
understand more.
Thought I would have a at least one tap-root, or maybe two
and someone sleeping next to me
who knew just how to toast my bread and how I took my coffee.
so unexpected
life.
CC