that's mrs. mediocrity to you

::

i will

stop for

::

Recently, my son moved out. It’s not the first time, it’s the second, so I wasn’t overly traumatized, but it is a big adjustment.

We are empty-nesters once again. Dynamics change, patterns shift, life changes. And goes on.

We miss him very much, but we are happy to see him moving forward in life.

Two weeks after he moved and got settled in, he came to pick up the one of our five cats that is his.

Another adjustment.

She is the playful little girl cat, the one who gets along with everyone, the mediator. My son found her in the middle of the road when she was just three weeks old. We had a hard time getting her to eat at first, she wouldn’t take formula from a dropper, and finally we made a mash of food and formula that she dove into, face first.

Every time she ate, her entire face would end up coated with food, and she cleaned herself so often that she rubbed all the hair off her nose. She is the cat that has always made us laugh.

But, we are adjusting, we know that she is safe and is on the next adventure of her life.

Our other cats however, are having issues.

We can’t explain to them that she isn’t truly gone forever, she is just someplace else. And so, they search for her, they mourn, they wander the house.

The kitty in the photo (Missy)  is our second oldest, the mother hen, the brooder. I took her outside with me the other evening, and she kept searching the horizon with her eyes, scanning the woods near our house, looking for Charlie.

Our second oldest cat, Pepe, is the silent type, the steadfast sentinel. It’s hard to tell what he is feeling, but he wanders the house and keeps trying harder than usual to get outside.

Naughty kitten, “He Who Must Not Be Named,” is hardest hit, Charlie is his best friend, in truth, the only other cat in the house that truly likes him. He is lost. Two nights ago he somehow managed to wiggle his way up under the quilt on my bed, and lay there like a lump under the covers for quite some time. He’s never done this before. He has spent twice as much time inside as normal, he is restless, angsty, needy, sad. He misses his playmate.

I try to explain to him that she is not gone like George, she is just somewhere else. But, of course, you can’t explain these things to a kitten. And yes, this means I talk to my cats.

Only our oldest cat, the Queen, is unaffected. She has never cared much for any of the other animals that have come into our lives.

You may think that I am crazy, attributing all these thoughts and emotions to cats, but I have lived with them all long enough to know their patterns and habits, and the change is clearly visible.

This weekend, we plan to have my son bring Charlie for a visit. Hopefully, that will make everyone feel a bit better.

Because as far as these cats are concerned, this empty nest stuff is for the birds.

And I am a a slightly crazier crazy cat lady.

there’s a crack in the wall
just above the staircase
that returns no matter
how many times i

patch it up

fill

sand

repaint

a few months later
there it is
again

.

before
i moved here
some 26 years ago
this house was moved from
two roads over
rooms
uprooted
and balanced
on a flat bed truck

then hauled across fields of corn
and set down here
in this new spot
to grow
a new history
and
settle into
this land this view
this corner

but that crack

that scar

is always there
just to remind me

of the many
definitions

of

impermanence

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

.

gruff

sometimes prickly and mostly silent

really quite hairy and a bit grey ’round the edges

forever watching over the brood

determined and hard-working

always ready to tough it out

even in those times of drought

beneath the barbs and bristles

a gentle heart of gold

beating in a forest

of fortitude

::

.

Happy Father’s Day to my old man

and all fathers everywhere.

.

photo: old man cacti at Longwood Gardens

Perspective is a tricky player. And there are days when you are blinded by the hand you are dealt, full of jokers and and clubs and spades. Days when you can’t see past the black humor of life.

Days when the good hides in the bottom of the deck and the bad, that ugly jack, gets turned face up.

And you know it’s all a game, that soon it will be over and life will go on the way it always does and next time you play you will get a hand full of diamonds. Or hearts.

And you know that in the grand scheme of things, it’s really not that bad anyway, everyone loses sometimes, everyone gets beat, or drops a card on the floor, or gets stuck playing 52 pick-up. My brother used to love pulling that one on me.

This has been a week like that.

A week that will pass whether I win or I lose, and some weeks, that’s just the way it goes.

I keep trying to focus on the good. I’m usually much better at that than I have been this week. This week that started out just fine and then turned into one small calamity after another. All small, all survivable, all just tiny blips on the big screen of life.

And now I’m mixing metaphors.

That’s okay, life is like that, too.

And I have this photo of this bird that came to visit me on Monday. And that was very, very good.

And every so often, if you stare at it for a long enough time, the ugly can start to look beautiful.

Any second now, I just know I’m going to draw the queen of hearts.

Come on, hit me.

is always the one
no one’s expecting
always tiny
and full of
…….other
…….possibilities
…….and the burden
…….of its own dead weight

…….i pretend my back
…….is stronger than
…….this mess you’ve left
…….in the kitchen

…….dirty dishes,
…….muddy tracks,
…….a trail
…….of crumbs

…….leading to
…….the places you’ve
…….always
…….kept secret

…….and i could follow
…….if i wanted
…….solve the puzzle
…….work my way up
…….to the big
…………reveal

…………but instead
…………i gather up sponge
…………and broom and
…………this tired old
…………dustpan

…………and whistle
…………as i work

…….and when
…….the job is finished
…………and my floor is
…………clean
…………but my hands
…………are dirty

…………then
……………..and only then

……………..i call your name

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

The best thing I did this week was the run I didn’t have time for.

Some weeks are like that, so filled with work and responsibilities, that you forget to look up, enjoy life. You forget to breathe.

I did have a few hours with my husband and my windmills on Tuesday, and in many ways, THAT was the best part of the week, but then the next thing I knew, it was Friday afternoon and my body just started screaming at me: run. I haven’t been in several weeks, all this gardening has been tough on my knees, but I haven’t done that this week either and my knees were feeling fine. My carpal tunnel on the other hand… oh my. My body needed to move.

And so, despite the fact that it would mean working later on a Friday than I wanted to, I got my gear on and headed to the trail. Before I even started running, as I was walking for my warm-up, I spotted a pair of cedar waxwings just above my head, doing the sweetest little courtship dance. The were snuggling and chirping, bobbing and dancing, ruffling up the crests on their heads. Acting like love birds. And just like that, there was a big smile on my face.

It was a good run, 4.5 miles, which these days, for me, is quite a feat. The weather was just perfect, not too hot, clear and sunny, and I felt myself breathing again, taking in the green and the trees and sun. Feeling alive.

On my way back down the trail, as I was walking to cool off, a Baltimore oriole landed in a bush right next to me and started eating berries. Another bird I rarely see, and he stayed for several minutes, not at all concerned about my presence as he ate his fill.

It was the day of beautiful birds. And I was happy.

I went home and finished the work I had left to do, and finally, much later than I would have liked, made it outside to sit in the garden with a glass of wine and Ben Webster in the background. As I sat there with a purring kitten in my lap, exhausted and content, I spotted a dragonfly in the stones a few feet away.

At first I thought it was just resting, it fluttered its wings every so often, but after some time had passed and it didn’t move, I went to investigate. I saw no visible damage, and picked it up on a stick and placed it on a hydrangea bush with big, soft, green leaves, but clearly, the end was near. I sprinkled some water on the leaf it rested on, and knew that I was witnessing the death of a dragonfly.

A small death in the grand scheme of things, very small, really. And yet, I was filled with sadness.

So much in this life we take for granted. Some days, some weeks, just the simple fact that we are here, alive.

Just one tiny afternoon filled with tiny miracles and tiny tragedies.

And big, big lessons.

::

and live in this spot

with this view

with the man that drives me here

and stops for ten million photos

and thinks i’m a little bit crazy

but never says so out loud

::

instead,

he buys me dip-tops

::

.

.

(a dip-top is my favorite kind of ice cream cone, chocolate ice cream
dipped in chocolate coating, and hard to come by where we live)

it’s june and i sit before this fire
wearing socks and a big fleece blanket
wondering how it is that just last week

i sat outside in the breeze dripping
sweat with my feet in a bucket of water
and i was sad then and i am sad now

and it was may then and it is june now
and life skitters away before me on
slippered feet that make no sound

and i think about change and
the way it no longer
interests me

and can’t decide if that’s right
or wrong or somewhere in between but
mostly i think about silence and

flowers and reading books that take me
to places i’ve never seen, no, not places,
i don’t care about places, i’ve never

cared about places, it’s lives i visit
in the pages of books, hearts i hear
beating at midnight and dawn

and sometimes, in summer, i stay up
reading all night just to listen and
wonder and watch the sun rise

on someone else’s

horizon

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

she cooked for an army because she had one
yours, mine, ours and this bunch had nothing
in common with the bradys

mostly i remember white uniforms,
being paid a quarter to rub wintergreen
on the hot, swollen feet of a nurse
and i could never imagine her dancing

past the faux-wood metal shelf
filled with knick knacks i was forever
in danger of breaking all mingled with
the smell of starch and the best
molasses cookies ever made

i rubbed pink lotion and collected
my coin but back then
i didn’t know all the stories
didn’t know there was more to be told

in the world my mother grew up in
fairy tales lived in a bottle and evil
slept in the corner one eye open

shhhhh, be careful not to wake him be good be good

except good was never good enough
and in the end the deepest scars
smelled like wintergreen and antiseptic

fingers worked to the bone never quite
disguise enough for a flawed heart
not made of gold not made of love
not made of anything but broken

and broken begets broken
fosters heartbreak and failure
and i like to think intentions were good
i like to think survival shouldn’t mean
damaged children but all i know are stories

and all i have are a teapot and a photo
of a hard-working woman who cooked for
an army because that’s what she had

but the soldiers she raised needed so much more
than the purple hearts they received

.

.

.

This poem started out being about my grandmother’s work as a nurse,
and then it took me someplace quite different…

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Poetics, Workin For It, join us!