Long Cabinets Poems
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Vicks Mentholatum. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
I sometimes open the jar and stick my nose in for a little smell
Which turns into a big smell, a little on my nose, some around my
Neck, and finally I beg my husband to slather it on my back while
I saturate my chest with it.
This smell loves me, calms me, and nurtures me like no other.
I probably spent the first ten years of my life slathered like this,
It brings back memories of mother, warm cocoa, soft scarves, and books.
Nothing opens my soul up faster than Native American flute music. It brings
out my wolf wild side. I want to run to a cliff and howl at the moon. It takes
me instantly to Sedona vacations, turquoise jewelry, kachina dolls, bringing the
American Southwest into my heart, and healing the sad places.
Almost everything I see delights me – shiny things, natural things, new things. But the thing that makes my heart sing the fastest is the sight of my grandchildren. Any one of them. I have ten, and it does not matter which one is coming toward me. There is a surge of happiness that leaps through me in a boundless joyful way that cannot be described. It is a craziness that must be lived and felt.
Beans will be the death of me. My favorite tastes all include beans. It is a toss-up which one
I like the most – jalapeno peppers stirred in refried beans, barbequed beans, kidney beans, pork and beans, and ham and beans. I salivate when I think of any of these. It is a spontaneous reaction that I have never been able to quell. When I was a child we ate lots of beans, so maybe that is where this is coming from. I have no idea. But I know these are my favorite meals. I am a cheap date.
What do I not like to touch? The list is tiny. I am a tactile learner. To teach me, you have to let me grab it, shake it, spin it, toss it, catch it, and rub it. I touch wallpaper, woodwork, and metal file cabinets in offices. I touch ants, rocks, flowers, grasses. I hug trees. I hug people. I am a professional toucher.
Possibly my favorite touch is warm, sudsy bath water after a trying day. I immerse myself, washing off sadness and disappointment, thinking of the Vicks Mentholatum which I will slather on when I get out.
Written: July 27, 2018
Entered: My 5 Senses Contest Sponsor: Viv Wigley
It is 2 pm
on a hot and humid Sunday
in June.
I am cleaning walls
and floors,
cabinets
and doors,
and laying newly steamed rugs
in a new place
of one floor living
more suitably down-sized
from three floor struggling
for my disabled son
and aging me.
My husband
for the past twenty four years
calls with Happy Father's Day!
This, like an anniversary ritual,
surprising reminder between us two Dads
not sure how we are doing
together.
But, better than apart.
Surprised,
I admitted
my failure to remember
perhaps because,
for me,
for us?
everyday is fathers' day
and night
of secularized care taking
As every mothers' day
and night
may become sacred care giving
As schools of male
and female,
more precisely male or female,
fish fail to remember
wet climates breathe water
in and out again,
care filling
and care emptying,
care giving
and care taking
within mundane
everyday habitual atmosphere
on this living
enculturing Earth
Which lives healthier
as we become more everyday
compassionate care givers
and takers
listening in
and speaking out
for our present
past
and future Earth
and EarthTribes,
Interdependent species
Organic holonic bodies
Extending multicultural families
Humane repopulations
at appropriately grateful scale
for peaceful
nutritional
energetic, yet care-full,
EarthJustice
Sometimes my unlanguaged son
sounds like a constipated chicken
trying to lay a great egg.
Yet he also roars
like an anticipating rooster
toward the light,
raising and praising east
and up and out
and west,
eager for this new caretaking
every Earth day.
The blooming luster of citrus oil
upon my pine cabinets, tantalizes my senses
and I am transported to the tropics,
escaping midwinter’s clutches.
The sun-kissed, sterling baubles
adorning each rolling wave’s crest,
are pearlesque raindrops dancing upon the
eternal sands; tiny cantaloupe balls for a
sand-crab’s weekend party.
A golden-orange sky-orb hangs above the
crystalline waters of the Atlantic;
a tangerine, popcorn ball for the angels to share.
I watch the cloud-angels gather overhead;
Raphaelite puffs swarm the carrot-colored skies;
a gathering of sacred rites,
that I am privileged to witness.
My skin drinks in the sweet, apricot nectar
from Heaven’s light-spray and I take another sip of
chilled Orange-Julius...ahh...
Gone
The light came in the window.
It is morning. I am sick inside.
I am always sick inside now.
Every day is a task.
I look at the calendar, the days…
are dragging!
Will they ever move as before?
Will I ever remember what it was…
you were trying to say to me…
at the end…?
I wanted to hear everything,
I wanted to keep every moment, close…
collected, forever cherished, forever mourned.
I need “your’ brightness my love.
I need what you gave so easily.
I checked the cabinets, the drawers the closets.
I fear there is none to be had…left.
Your essence, your scent.
They washed the sheets.
They cleaned up.
They were trying to help.
I set now at the edge of our bed,
holding your brush, I found…
in the sewing room.
It has a few strands of you…
“help me.”
Oh, oh! pity party
I want my old house back
I want it summer
windows open curtains fluttering
in the ocean breeze
I want my carpet sofa chairs
desk etagere
coffee table piles of books
and magazines
I want my little kitchen
chopping block island
glass-front cabinets
with the Chilmark pottery
I want my garden rhododendrons
Montauk daisies
the curved path with
axioms carved into flat stones
I want my white-fenced yard
garden shed made by
the Martha’s Vineyard High School
carpentry class
I want my wide-railing porch
settee swing and chair
blue and white striped cushions
flower baskets hanging all around
I want my friends, my neighborhood
ocean beach plums wild grapes
for the picking
I want my old home back
Adventures by Need
I go to see my son today,
It is a good day.
My heart is happy, truly.
I wash my face, brush my teeth,
and pick out a funny shirt.
Kick butt boots, or fast tennis shoes?
Always the decision…!
I stop at the door and look in the mirror…
I am as ready, as I ever am.
The clock on the wall, by the image looking back,
reads; “it is not yet time to go.”
I put my purse back down,
and try not to frown.
From there I head to the kitchen.
I start with a handful of chores.
The cabinets, the tables,
the drawers, and the floors…
When was the last time, I wiped down the doors?
The living room, the bedroom, the bathroom,
the closet, yet the clock reads only half-past…
The garage…?
Mow the grass? (too loud)
Weed the grass?
(Already done, would the neighbors care if I pulled theirs?
Sure, nothing odd about that at all…happens all the time in some places.
Especially where God keeps mothers busy and never lets them cry.)
Finally, the sun rises, and I can go.
My heart is aflutter and I just don’t know.
Praying for a good day, yes that is my prayer.
Thank you, Lord regardless,
for getting me there.
The sun is a monster,
The stars are monsters,
Monsters that make us spin
In the universe,
Our planet is so small,
The sun looks at her, like a cat a mouse,
Like a bug,
The sun is a monster,
That one cannot look into the eyes,
a monster who devours his own house,
A bloodthirsty monster,
Heard millions of miles away,
If this monster wakes up,
It will destroy everything,
Our houses, our armies, our principles,
He will destroy our works of art,
Mozart and Rembrandt,
It will destroy all our ambitions,
To conquer the universe,
To move our cabinets,
To cook again lobsters,
So let’s be wise,
The monster is watching us,
But he has great appetite,
Let’s not wake him up,
His light is our life,
Where does this monster come from?
No one knows, Perhaps you know?
He comes from far away, no doubt,
From another galaxy,
One thing is for sure,
This monster is more powerful than God,
Let us take advantage of his wickedness,
Let us become gods in our turn,
Are we not monsters?
(Wems Henry Temmy Psalm 79)
June comes to put on a nice tune
Hard to listen while citizens sing
Soft to deny for those leading her fortune
Telling You to stand for us oh KING
Let the cool rot of Nebuchadnezzar
Star their shines with chronic lazar
Can I hear a louder AMEN!
Twelve disciples fell back on fishing
M.K.O followers aren't only Yorubas
Many are of history while some are wishing
Other are running liberation's like plumbers
Make their blue sea rest not into nature's hand
Growing tempest keeps the calm in remand
Let AMEN be logically loud!
Come on, come off but stand not prepared
Sit up, sit in the grace for cross nails is for all
Till time capable of healing set to be repaired
Not on scope failure brings to reinstall Saul
Make our Samuel anoint David soon
That protesters will at end get to croon
I believe this, cry AMEN!
Roam around the sun like the planets
Sorry tour round Africa, Naija is rich
Rome wasn't built a day, ask her cabinets
They were not after getting themselves enrich
Let their fake hustling hunt their nights
That no morning and noon dare reflect lights
I doubt you don't trust your Amen!
Demons in craze growing days of injustice
Demonstrating crazy acts cutting days of youths short
To bless the parents' old age of their wards malpractice
An open examination with rules of snort
Let karma serve its turn on the guilty ones
Make the good one live the fullest off guns
Amen or no AMEN, prayers wont cease!
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Cabinets, tables and chairs were old crust.
No mercy was shown on this abandoned place
No one dared to restore its bygone grace.
At least that's what I saw in the meagre light
Just a candle to explore through the night.
In parts, it was just a mere ugly wreck
To repair it, I needed a million cheques.
The war years seemed like only yesterday
Disgusted I felt like going away.
Who cared about this stupid worthless dare?
Oh Lord, was that a ghost that I saw there?
A model in old style on broken stairs,
In semi-darkness, I just stood scared there.
A light breeze spread quickly, light as a lark
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark
February winds pound the siding scattering sand left by the snow plows through the gray angry air. The house seems full of small noises and little else. The cat has taken up his guard post in his rug-covered tree house and purrs in tune with the ping of the hot water pipes. Even the dust has settled.
empty chairs
surround a guestless table:
I stand cup in hand
Scanning the tidy kitchen with its Wedgewood-blue counters and rustic farm-scene border, I note, the cabinets need a good rubdown. Murphy’s Oil in hand I approach the oak with determination, and a soft pink flannel rag. The scent of lemon oil, crisp and clean, wafts past my nose. With great care, I climb a gingerbread chair to reach the highest cabinets over the stove. I balance, praying the seat cushion doesn’t slide out from under my feet. Opening the double doors, I view a stockpile of holiday décor, now unused. There below the paper Easter Eggs, I see them and a tear comes to my eye. Empty now, decades old, of all different sizes, red satin boxes, Valentine Hearts, forgotten.
disturbed dust
floats past my eyes:
the clock bongs once
First Published in haibun Today Fall 2013