Questions Remain

Posted on by buffaloed

My first administrative assistant, lovely Edna,
so kind, so Southern Baptist. I can hear her
booming voice with its hint of a chuckle.

Edna prayed for me. She prayed for everyone,
but especially for this beer-drinking Yankee
who didn’t believe in heaven,

and so surely is going to hell.
My definition of hell is to never know
the answers to my long list of questions,

while forever craving, deeply yearning.
I had a boss say, “I don’t know what you don’t
know.” I said, “I don’t know what I don’t know.”
I know which of us is smarter.

I dwell on life’s great mysteries but find
the small ones equally confounding:
The Bermuda Triangle and traffic circles.

I flinch when I see a silverfish
or a centipede in the house.
I ask it: What are you doing up here?
You have the entire basement.

Even when they trespass, like the thin spider
that dropped from the ceiling
into the white porcelain bowl
while I was making breakfast,

rather than squash it
I transported the creature outside and
shooed it into the strawberry bed.

I strive each day to be more a source of light
than just a reflection of it.

Human cruelty perplexes me.
The death of a glacier saddens me.
Kind acts make me cry.

While human indifference incenses me,
my cat’s indifference makes me laugh.

If I’m wrong and Edna’s right,
I’m going to miss seeing
a lot of good people when I die,
and I know I won’t get answers there.

And still I ask the questions:
What is my place in the universe?
Where did I park the car?

Searching

Posted on by buffaloed

Ignoring the squeak
of metal against metal,
I spin the pockets
around the pole,
looking for the right postcard

the waterfall frozen in sunlight,
the golden autumn scene
    etched in silver,
the waterpark slide with
    air-gasping laughing families,

looking for the one that reads
I’m having a blast.
This is the best vacation.
I stop turning the cards.

I’m looking for you.

Passing the time in another meeting

Posted on by buffaloed

Crossed ankles, rocking heel,
jiggling one leg, jiggling both,
the slow fast toe tap,
the quick bounce off the ball of a foot,

sandals, high heels,
Dr Scholl’s, mules,
flip-flops, sneakers and socks,

quiet feet,
left behind right,
tucked in and still.

All this movement,
an extension of our thoughts –
anxious if she’s called on,
or eager to be heard.

My own foot sways,
slow and comforting,
marking time like a weight
on the end of a pendulum.

The woman next to me
eyeballs the motion.
“My mother would have said
to stop that.”

My mother said,
“With all these meetings,
when do you have time
to get anything done?”

Inside a hot flash that won’t

Posted on by buffaloed

my brain does not
focus?

go ahead, aske me a question
an
easy one
I can’t
miss my response:
huh

through a white
thicket between mind
and thought
comes fever,
flu,
nausea,

the shakes, my stomach lining
jitters, agitation crawling
up my throat

trapped
the room has no air

another thought
sifts
through
the porous membrane: not

flu
stuck in an anxious miasma of
too warm, but not hot
can’t achieve hot to

let me go,
the nausea to abate,
to move on no
crest to this tepid flood no
breaking and ebbing ten
minutes of it twenty
no cooling comfort that

perhaps
this
is the last,
my very last
hot flash. Ever.

I’ve had a million
trigger them with
candy, a glass of wine,
hot tea, spicy Mexican,
nothing at all to

hate the feeling of
scorched sand frying
up my veins, under
the skin of my
arms, giving me hot chills,
sweat breaks out on
my shins, hair dripping at
the nape of my neck, knowing

only one hot blast will
end the faulty surge
I want the worst,
ready to breathe again.

 

Nora’s Lullaby

Posted on by buffaloed

Welcome, baby,
to end of day.
Time for dreams
to carry you away.

You’ve kissed your mommy,
your daddy, too.
Hugged your brother
and he’s hugged you.

We’ve read a story,
now your head nods.
We say our prayers,
give thanks to God.

Good night, baby.
Welcome sleep.
In my heart
you’ll always keep.

In my heart
you’ll always keep.

~ AJ

Going to the Church of Laundry

Posted on by buffaloed

Sunday is wash day
separating dark and light,
removing stains and sweat
from shirts and sheets.

It’s not as if I’m prostrate
kneeling on the river bank,
stones digging into my knees,
knuckles scraped on the rock
I use as a washboard.

It’s not as if I’m standing
knee deep in the River Jordan,
proselytizing my beliefs
in the one true God,
or even that there is a god.

If not absolved,
at least clean.
Does being next to godliness
still count?

 

In Spring

Posted on by buffaloed

I planted a garden,
which means I dug up
buckets of dirt, dug out
weeds, disturbed
the red ants.
They swarmed up
the shovel handle.

I planted a garden,
unexpectedly unearthing
a cast-iron bathtub.
The first homeowner had
buried it in the backyard.
No claw feet.
People always ask.

I planted a garden,
after doing battle
with two cactus plants
standing sentry
at the back door.
Prickly by nature,
they did not go quietly.

I planted a garden,
or at least –
I prepared the bed
for the flowers to be.
I rinsed off the shovel,
ants and dirt and blood
returning to the earth.

Addictions

Posted on by buffaloed

I consider myself fairly simple in my wants. Unlike one sister who grew up riding horses and taking care of all the attending accoutrements, or the other sister who is an oil painter and so has paints and palette and brushes and easel, my favorite hobby consists of a pen and a note pad with which to write. I’ve written on planes and trains, hotels and hospitals, desktops and recliner chairs and standing in line, and so long as I had ink – preferably black though sometimes blue – and paper, my habit could be satiated.

Pen and paper and a cup of hot tea for morning journaling, a glass of cold water at night – and snacks. Fruit – fresh, dried, cut off the pit or chewed off the core. I’m orally fixated, so really – any fruit and most snacks will do: pretzels, raisins, hazelnuts. In summer a Popsicle. In winter a cup of homemade apple sauce warmed up. Anything to chew. Gum. Gum by the packet, two or three a day.

So. Writing and chewing.

And when my hand is tired and my brain empty, I turn to the TV to take in Blue Bloods, Black-ish, Say Yes to the Dress.

My habits are simple – but I sure have a lot of them.

The Second Sunday of May

Posted on by buffaloed

If you were here today,
to celebrate Mother’s Day,
I would plant an herb garden for you.

Come summer, you could have
the bright taste of parsley in chilled tomato soup
and quirky lemon balm in your tea
– in winter, a leaf of sage
in your favorite butternut squash.

Year to year, some of the plants,
like basil and dill,
would need to be replaced –
but who doesn’t like an excuse
to buy a new Easter dress?

Heartier herbs go round and round.
You’d always find steadfast rosemary
right where we’d put her, while sweet mint,
that gadabout, would spring up
wherever space allowed

amidst spires of pencil holly,
among the showy iris, rubbing
leaves with the sociable butterfly bush.

And versatile lavender, cool and warm,
would be heavy enough to touch you,
her scent woven into the memory of air.