Leaving dusty footprints on Texan soil,
a drifting unemployed taxi driver.
Stumbling through nights of doubt,
towards seedy lighthouses that shone brightest.
He scratched her name on napkins, in margins,
on the fogged glass of Greyhounds—
rehearsing a love that would never be more
than a monologue for his mirrors.
Believing the act would be a sentence,
six shots, one ricocheted love letter,
so that on his arrival,
history might remember him
as something other than a ghost.
Not for Light's absence
Cringe, this hour, you
As for whose presence
Enlarged is. Dead!
Fearing's ghostly cloaked.
Uprose, fogged, too
Out this; by that, swamp-croaked.
That, swamp-hooted.
He wasn’t supposed to jump.
He only wanted the peanuts.
But one curious sniff near the open door
and suddenly~
there he was,
parachute blooming behind him
like a startled balloon animal.
His goggles fogged with fear,
his tail doing interpretive dance,
he squeaked something that sounded
very much like
“I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS.”
Yet as the wind carried him downward,
he began to relax~
realizing that even accidental heroes
get a pretty spectacular view.
We mortals are known for waging good
And gallant fights to ward off some of
The fury of mother nature. We often
Succeed in fighting, defending, and
Minimizing her calamitous effects,
But we can never wip Mother Nature.
I once lived in an area that fogged
Heavily certain times of the year,
Especially late nights and early
Mornings. The heavy fog sometimes
Caused much damage and loss of
Life in anto accidents.
Some motorists equipped their vehicles
With fog lights to aid in their visibility.
Unfortunately, the company vehicle
I drove did not have fog lights.
When driving was required under such
Conditions, I often sought the tail lights
Of big rig trucks. Their big red tail lights
Would usher me safely through the fog.
Death of a loved one changes the lives
Of whom is left behind
He may not understand what is left for him
His direction, path, focus has been fogged
His mind has regressed to escape his stress
His actions become childlike as he seeks
Attention, connection, touch
But only in his form, his way
Not considering other feelings
No awareness of!
No respect for!
Disregarding sensitivity of!
you inspire this man that is shy,
When i now rile and curse
From my head to the end of my skirts
and fear that i may fall dry ahead
Cry of debt before my death
I am be-mused, yet not be-fogged
when i see you anew under same moonlight
and not see a bug
The fogged mind will die
Leaking the urges to heal
Alone the mind is
Let not this darkness behind you
Your present joy o'ershadow.
Fair Earth, in its morn's glow, shedding
Its own haunted state's fogged clue.
"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time."
– Sir John Lubbock
"Allow nature's peace to flow into you as sunshine flows into trees."
- John Muir
Grey clouds hover as sunlight filters through
Faraway fogged mountains come into view
There's serenity in the breeze that blows
The sun sets slowly as the sky still glows
Will it rain today? Maybe, it'll drizzle!
But right now, heaven's on a soft sizzle
The wind, the trees, the sunshine and the blue
"Allow nature's peace to flow into you"
Serenity is found where there is peace
And it's nature that sets my mind at ease
It's late; the evening chill dictates.
Body shivered, skin hairs dampened
As the drowning silence resonates,
Isolation crept as the hour deepened.
Faint glows from the candles lit.
Replaced the moonlight, eerily absent.
Veiled by curtains, fogged by mist,
The alleyway is a precarious tread.
Arrived — those massive gates surround
The place I long expected to abound,
Where rest is rewardingly found
Completed the journey, one full round.
Let the door close; the past be forgotten
Escape from worries, untie the burden.
An existence resembling life in the Garden,
For all conclusions are personal heaven.
Have I forgotten how to feel
Cannot smile nor cry
My mind has built thesewalls
So deep and dark and high
I've losses life has dealt
The constant grief and pain
Has made me fall to numbness
Never to feel again
It's safe within this hole
It's dark and I stay blind
It keeps me from the suffering
In my cold and frozen mind
I need to cry and grieve
I need to scream and shout
I need to run away
But i cannot just get out
So I watch from a window
Fogged and damp And dumb
I stay inside this nothingness
Cold and grey and numb
Who would’ve thought that
the rain tapping the window
would harmonize so well
with the rude honesty of my morning alarm
.
My brain negotiates with the day
and I stagger forward,
faithless and naked,
toward the coffee maker,
sliding my small ceramic cup
beneath the steaming spout of joy,
waiting for something warm to arrive.
The grinder growls through its duty,
as the scent of a French roast
slowly threads its way
into my fogged-up thoughts,
I sit and I sip and i smile
until the day, slowly and unbothered,
finally comes into focus.
There is nothing in life
so plain, so unassuming,
that inspires my senses quite like
a morning cup of coffee.
Mud lines my way
In a field of concrete
Where you live and where I watch.
Let me walk - or rather writhe -
Past pillars of flesh,
Your flesh,
And sniff human smells
Of sweat and gold and sleep.
This is your garden of my earthly delights.
You squash me with damp paper.
I curl before your door and wait.
Will your door ever open?
I watch through fogged panes
Your daily life -
Perhaps when you lift your shirt too -
I do not think my head will regret
The sordid sights of my soul.
I ache.
Do not tell me my karma,
I too see my heart lift the feather.
O how I dare.
Dare to touch lips and dare to talk,
Dare to lock eyes and dare to walk.
Do not tell me my karma.
You squash me with damp paper.
You open your door above me
I scuttle through.
My wet cerci and my hard thorax
Leave no cause for concern.
I do not think you will see me.
Do not tell me my karma.
I am the yellow cockroach
You squash with damp paper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, it was the small things~
a button loose on his coat,
the way the kettle whistled
but no one came.
Then the clock stopped,
not abruptly, but slow,
as if time itself had grown tired
of counting.
The wallpaper remembered
patterns they’d long forgotten,
peeling itself back
to reveal older bruises~
yellowed glue, pencil marks
where someone once measured
a child against the doorframe.
One evening, the sofa exhaled,
sagging into the shape of absence.
The windows fogged with breath
that wasn’t theirs.
And when the last light bulb dimmed,
they didn’t replace it.
They sat in the thickening dark,
listening to the house
unbuild itself around them.
*You may read the companion memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/ill_be_seeing_you_13598
Dusty light fogged the attic,
antique smell brought back my past…
rows of smiling dulcet dolls,
building blocks and kitchen sets,
my childhood hidden treasures
lay beside a keepsake box,
the teeth inside were not mine.
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