AT THE PORT OF AMAZING GRACE
On a remote isle of
emotional consciousness
wandering undulating waves
kiss shores sanded with keloid memories
reflecting a journey sailed over whirlwind waters
of testing currents of life that battered my faithful ship of hope
that is now docked at the disembarking horizon of God’s great
port of amazing grace: its bells ringing love and clanging liberty:-
I pried with a screw-driver driven into a lid
sealed with age, and rust, to crack open a
callous retribution, set aside, tombed over.
I was curious to learn how much remained
and in what condition. Up came the lid with
a gurgle, fizz, hiss, expelled with age smell.
The paint on top, had dried, to a skin, a curd,
a viscous scum of strange foreign color that
did not auger well for its pending redemption.
I poked through the thin skin, scooping it out,
to reveal the paint separated into its primary
colors. Once, thrice stirred, it slowly rejigged
into its original color and form, ready to adorn
marks on the wall, scraped and sanded ready
for a fix, now all's done dusted, and forgiven.
Women of a certain age
Remember, when in school,
Boys did woodwork, girls
Home economics, as a rule.
The boys made houses for the birds –
They sanded, sawed and nailed
While girls both cooked and sewed,
Which every housewife’s job entailed.
When reminiscing with some friends,
We all could recollect
We had to sew an A-line skirt
For teachers to inspect.
Each one of us had moms like mine,
Who, knowing how to sew,
Helped stitch the skirt on her machine,
So we’d be good to go.
The memory brought laughter
Of our common circumstance,
But I might’ve made a better birdhouse
If I’d had the chance.
The universe is like a wooden door.
Too many lines and swirls.
Can’t always be counted on.
Can be sanded down.
The universe is like a jean jacket.
That has patches.
Everything does.
I did too.
The universe is like the floor.
A hardwood floor.
Which gets dusty.
I live in an abandoned house.
It’s connected.
The door is wooden too.
The universe.
Encompasses.
2005.
I had just fallen off my bike.
Nothing much happened except a scrape.
Which healed.
A wooden door could never heal itself.
The universe.
It fell off its hinges.
One day.
And no one noticed.
Sea Glass
From Mother Nature’s jewel box
She gives us and
She reciprocates …
Over the sands of time She forms and fashions troves of jewels
Refuse, shards of glass litter discarded and strewn
Sanded and polished by briny waves magically glazed frosty verglas
Trading trash and abuse with gifts
Sea glass gems washed ashore
Stones resembling emeralds, amethyst, ruby’s,
turquoise crystals displayed on the soft carpeted shores
Wishes to have seen this newfangled beauty
She once gifted us exquisitely
A rare sight as less litter evinces Her gifts scarce
I wonder was She by us coerced?
Ample reasons for us to quit littering
if not, there are more
Perry's Disinclination for Mushrooms
A mushroom is not something new
Inside some pasta or a stew.
But, when it comes to feeding Perry,
A mushroom is extraordinary!
John's Surgery
An eyeball must be a perfect sphere.
If an imperfection should appear,
A handy doctor, not ham-handed,
Will use his head and have it sanded.
O breezy Spring leaves,
Show-offs of stupendous beauty.
Your breathtaking heights
and swooning low brights,
Puffy delights
As you bud and sway.
You delightfully chill me
Goosebumps on arms
and brace.
Fingertips are nearly blue,
brazenly so on this Spring-a-ling day.
An open space,
front door unhinged,
ready to be sanded and stained.
I’ll swing a jacket
about my shoulders
and sock up my feet.
Sock it to me, Spring!
I will spring into action
that is if
I can retract my wiggly fingers
back from the letters
leaping onto white space.
Reminds me of the swoosh of beach -
its tremendous peaks.
Not a damaging Spring
but quite mischievous!
You stole my far away kingdom
didn't say what for?
Said I didn't have the jurisdiction
to grapple my own crown
The ice resurrects steely bacteria
will our antibiotics endure?
I feel all elephantine
the piper is never paid
My foot prints are all asunder
on ancient sanded dunes
My ship is sinking
The troubadour sings
The innkeeper perilously on the cliff yelps
some erratum does he detect
under the lych-gate shall I pass
before the wait in holding hands
for the robed man of God to steer
me to my resting days
and shall I then be added to
the sanded brick of grotesque face
that stares across the standing stones
to look beyond the yew
and those who sidle in the rain
with shoulders loaded down with strife
will keep their head and eye to ground
and unaware of mine
then as I learn such higher ways
and freedom casts me from its stone
so will I then bargain forth
and leave the world behind
now in the realm I find myself
among ancestral light and warmth
the pain and heaviness has gone
and I begin to shine
then glow do I a little more
in understanding what has been
while bathed in voice of honey tone
and stole for my return
when it comes to renovating
I'm definitely slapdash
in fact it would be fair to say
that I can be rather rash
sanding bores me senseless
and it's a job I try to shirk
because I lack the patience
for the preparation work
I’ve slapped the paint on badly
it’s dripping down the door
oozing over skirting boards
to decorate the floor
spots are on the window
and spilled upon on the stair
unfortunately I've got most of it
stuck on my face and hair
they say patience is a virtue
a saying I should not ignore
because now that it’s all finished.....
I wish I'd sanded more
If there’s one thing I excel at,
(I am really quite a pro)
It is using the back burner,
Which, in case you didn’t know
Means procrastination, baby!
Putting things off for so long
I forget I meant to do them,
Which I guess is kind of wrong.
Still, I do deserve some credit -
The ideas are all my own:
Swapping couches for replacements
Or an upgrade for my phone,
Sprucing shelves up in the kitchen,
Ditching clothes that I don’t wear,
Having floors both stained and sanded,
Planning trips to who-knows-where.
Once I pounce upon a project,
I do research so I know
All the people I must contact
So I’ll be all set to go.
You’d think gathering the info
Would present the hardest part,
But for pros like me, that’s nothing -
What we cannot do is START!
I like the old buildings,
the weathered brick,
the worn down doorsteps sanded
by a century of shuffling feet,
the musty smells from
old bond stores and hotel
cellars wafting up through
grates along the street.
I like the defiance
of the old façades,
how they hang on
beneath layers of gaudy paint,
the names and dates
embossed on buildings
refusing to be rubbed out,
the held dignity of a stone wall,
desecrated by graffiti
yet still standing straight.
I like the late night
peace and quiet
that settles along the lanes
and back streets
of the old port,
places only the locals know,
home to the ghosts
of washed-up sailors
and the lost souls
who have nowhere
else to go.
Noiseless Nonsense
am sure pure nonsense
bought things that are noiseless
which was so intense
is a leaf raker
while being a heart breaker
needs an undertaker
to him have handed
when things he loudly sanded
to leave cat our demanded
should see him sweep and sweep
when the pile was wide and deep
went to sleep after counting sheep
Put together doors
Big wholes creates and bores
were rotten to cores
I'm feeling kind of blank today.
My hollow head holds nothing inside.
Anything I'd be feeling drips out my eye sockets and onto the ground
like a raindrop sinking to the ocean floor.
A butterfly lands on my face.
Its wingbeats vibrate against my sanded skin.
A birdwing, I think.
Opalescent aqua and jet black softly flap against my head.
The butterfly could have chosen any head to land on.
Soft fur of a squirrel, light wool of a sheep, or smooth skin of an octopus.
But it chose me.
Who knew a single butterfly could provide so much validation?
So much depends upon.
The tumbleweed.
Delicate and lonely.
The tumbleweed.
Lonesome and dead.
The tumbleweed.
Sanded and lifeless.
The tumbleweed.
We can restore.
The tumbleweed.
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