Emerald Dreams
"We should run off to Ireland,” she said.
“Really, we should."
"We could live by the sea,
talk into the rainy nights,
and wake with the screeching of sea birds."
“We could buy fresh bread and cheeses from the little markets,
and brew strong tea for our breakfasts.”
“I could buy a loom and make sweaters,” she smiled.
“And I could learn to row a dingy and catch fish,” he replied,
''We would build fires by the sea and cook the fish",
she offered brightly
"But I would always be home with you when the weather was bad.”
He assured her
And so they talked into the rainy night
in Chicago, where it was cold.
Superficial impressions, like the sunset ripple
Museums, beaches, cafes by the score
The phrasebook conversations with the service people
Cliches in their predictable galore
You’re saved from depth and filled with little pleasures
The charms of tourism, early breakfasts, late night bed
You travel light or loaded, spot some treasures
And file them in the archive, to forget.
Let me spin a yarn, reality,
Failing the weight loss industry
No binge eating any more,
Comfort food had left the store,
NO COOKIES!, so hard,
Lettuce leaves by the yard,
Must stop pretending, I say,
Hobbit's second breakfasts, okay.
Time to accept, destress, funny,
Now home for raisin toast and tea,
Hot and sweet, fat like me,
Yes, failed weight loss totally!
.
there'z
no like it
them quaint
victorian houses
with them
spooky halls that twist
back bedroomz
into the library
down
yikes
them basement steps
unto that
knock knock
are you
awake mr.
white flap'n
undone
robe
sunrise
Home, was where you went at six pm. for supper,
for lunch when there was no school, and you were out
all morning playing.
Where special breakfasts were served on weekends.
Where you made your cold cereal breakfasts before
going to school from the third grade on.
Home was where you always found clean clothes
one a week, sometimes twice on your bed to be folded
and put away in your dresser drawers or put on hangers
and hung up by you.
It was where your mother and father lived.
Where your mother cared for you when sick,
Father handed you a few bucks 'on the sneak' Friday night
he really didn’t have when you were going out with your
girlfriend now wife.
Where you were told.
"Of course, you could come back home after our enlistment
was up in the service."
Where fifty dollars left on your end table in your bedroom
was still there after ten weeks of basic training.
Home, wasn't such a bad place to have been then, or now,
when I think about.
In a Train Station
Quickly we had our breakfasts
Then we both gazed
At the station clock
The morning train is late
Everything is wet
At night, the rain poured heavy
I listened to it
Hitting the bricks on the roof.
So tasty is this coffee, you said
The smell of bread, the flame of the oven
And the two bags
You didn’t wear your trenchcoat, I asked
You didn’t reply
You doubted
Whether we could reach the airport before noon
The plane won’t wait for us, you said
What if the train never arrives
We have no time
The hands of the clock are not moving
And those waiting before us
Took their bags and disappeared
What are we waiting for?
I was lost in the cumulus clouds
Over the chimneys of country houses
Yet, the village was still sleeping
The station guard switched off the lights
And left, humming a song
Tell me
When will we leave too?
No one is here
Even you
You are not here
The rain has dried up
Your dreams became pale
And very far is the airport.
You are one to a guy living close,
Who sometimes lets you in on his woes,
The wrought by nearness of abodes;
Families walking the same roads…
Neighbor don’t deny your Good Morning,
At noon over the slight still mourning:
“Our blocks in the same habitation
And soon hearts of equal palpitation”
Yep, The Controlled By Vicinity,
Ahead going to embrace unity:
To stretch the name fullest: Good Neighbor,
As minds should not conceive Bad Neighbor…
Sometimes mindful of competition,
Your steady progress for petition;
Furtive glances at your new garments,
As you keep renewing them laments.
The poor wearies the rich with pleas
“For just my breakfasts help out, please!”
The rich with enervating labor
As condition for grant of favor!
Still, when it matters submits to bond:
In cocktails of one another fond;
For the wife beater alerts a cop,
For another’s death could himself drop!
a working stiff
Woke, the bedroom was cold under the duvet snugness
I burrowed deeper, enjoying the freedom of sleeping late.
Life was hard, getting up at five and preparing breakfasts for
grumpy seamen, smoking the first cigarette of the day.
The breaking of the fast was endlessly tedious, something
with eggs and fatty meat.
Sometimes when there was a gap between feeding times,
I tried to write; my hands stank of chip fat.
On hundreds of pages, “I’m alive, I’m a life”.
I was a robot; my body is going through a motion.
When peeling potatoes, I was suddenly awake
fake brown gravy and spuds; there were no robots
The bed is warm; nothing can touch me now,
touch me now!!!!
My parents moved recently–
a nice place, marsh view,
plenty of trees and walking trails
a nice big kitchen for Scottish breakfasts.
Their deck upstairs looks out
on the marsh water shining in the sun.
The aquatic landscape broken only
by the stilted legs of hungry herons.
The floorboards no longer creak
beneath my ocher footsteps
and I feel like a visitor here–tourist
Then I wonder, how much of myself
was left in those creaking planks?
How much of my life is threaded
in their wooden veins?
Perhaps this new deck doesn’t creak
only because I’ve shed the weight
of my childhood, the cloak
of memory–disrobed and I am refreshed
like new bamboo shoots in spring.
He never liked "Bob" - now a success
So Robert Croslin he is
Raise in Baltimore ("projects")
His mom (Aurelia) is grandma to my kids
His only son, a lawyer in DC
In his own right, now elected
Mayor of Hyattsville! (Praise God)
Once, my "good" eye-doctors place
Where I volunteered for its Literacy Council
Memories of Library, churches, New Year breakfasts!
A liveable community, a bit costly now
But memories continue to layer on
When the time was a trial
Woke up, the bedroom was cold under the duvet snugness
I burrowed deeper enjoying the freedom of sleeping late.
Life was hard, getting up at five and preparing breakfasts for
grumpy seafarers smoking, the first cigarette of the day.
The breaking of the fast was endlessly tedious, something
with eggs and fatty meat.
Sometimes when there was a gap between feeding times,
say, dinner at twelve, I tried to write; my hands stank of chip fat.
On hundreds of pages, “I’m a life I’m a life”.
I pretended I was a robot, what the body was going through
the motion was not my concern; free to dream.
When peeling potatoes one morning, I was suddenly awake
Between fake brown gravy and spuds; there were no robots
me all along
the bed is warm, nothing can touch me now,
touch me now!!!!
I'm in need of strength to bring reason here
and rip the roof off with pliers
and cut the spongy tongue of the shadow
and replace this wind's fake smile
for some more solid wisdom
than those available
on supermarket shelves
who doesn't see that we're all fighting
for the same velvety results?
something that brings us the blessing of Sundays
the calm heart of breakfasts
spear the anguish with the fork
you know, there's a thrush that lives nearby
yesterday he landed on my window
and I looked right into the brown of those eyes
I swear
they seemed to scold me
To dream of a place
Where I can be.
Four doors and four walls
Are all that I need.
An Island with trees on
A friend to each season
A home who would love me like wind.
I'd split a tree
And build breakfasts in spring
Raising a cabin from earth and cut reeds
Eggs and smoked bacon and hands round hot tea
Dew wet in pollentops, sewing bright seeds.
I'd dig a well
And pack lunches in summer
Guarding the garden by light of warm moons
Strawberries, cream sauce, beer and fried mussels
Adventures in woodshades, and haze on dark dunes.
I'd weave warm clothes
An do dinner in autumn
Harvest brown beans as the green skies blow thin
Dark stews with mushrooms, blackberries and sloes
Shortening days, I store piles of dead things.
I'd make a bed
And sleep for the winter
Wind wrecks my made things as days disappear
Dreaming of puddings as my cabin's tested
Shooting a bird, my last meal of the year.
I'm in need of strength to bring reason here
and rip the roof off with pliers
and cut shadow spongy tongue
and replace the false smile of this wind
for some more solid wisdom
than those of supermarket shelves
who doesn't see that we're all fighting
for the same velvety results?
something that brings us the blessing of sundays
the calm heart of breakfasts
spear the anguish with the fork
you know, there's a thrush that lives near here
yesterday landed on my window
and I looked right into the brown of those eyes
I swear they seemed to berate me
Some days I have a Wheaties breakfast
With strawberries and milk; I love the way it turns pink.
Other days I am in a hot warm cupcake sort of mood.
I warm one up in the microwave and add frosting.
I once ate cold pepperoni pizza for breakfast; that was interesting.
I have also had corn pancakes with syrup,
peanut butter and banana pancakes.
I have eaten bacon, ham, and beef for breakfast.
Some days I have a ham salad sandwich for breakfast
with sweet bread and butter pickles.
More later.
I am going to have one of those right now…..
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