, , , , , , ,

Wednesday.  Hateful, spiteful Wednesday. I told my wonderful bossfriend today that I thought I had figured out a way to get around my grumpiness on Wednesdays, and to avoid hate-poeming about them, but it wasn’t the case. It is Wednesday, and I hate everything. Well, not everything. But lots of things. Plus, I don’t have a poem yet, and its late and I need to get to bed. I tried to find one all day, but nada. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had less of a poem ever, in this nearly-one hundred days. I even managed to be grumpy at HP, and he is smart enough to back away slowly, retreating to the bedroom where he will snore so loudly when I come in that it will be impossible to get to sleep. See? I’m damn near venomous right now. Ugh.

Also, I’m having trouble uploading images to go with my poems. It is probably a small problem, that would be easy to fix, if my brain weren’t old and pissed off. But, the fact that the last few poems have had no visuals is really  bothering me.

Really the only thing that is not bothering me is the story my mother told me tonight about seeing my Great-grandfather’s ghost while I was a newborn and she was rocking me in her rocking chair. She said she actually SAW him, which, in light of yesterday’s poem, made me jealous. It’s a pretty idea, too, the ancestors coming to check on the new ones, so I’m gonna go with that because it’s all I’ve got tonight. Another springtime ghost poem.

A Night Visit

Maybe she was nursing the firstborn, so quickly caught, maybe by lamplight, or maybe in the dark. Maybe just rocking in her new motherhood, or breathing in the milk breath.

The sound of the fire, the creak, the rockers on the hardwood, these are the sounds that invited him in to visit. Maybe these were the sounds that guided the ghost of great-grandfather Anton across the threshold to meet us again.

Whatsoever opened the door, it was the space of her love and the light warm weight in her arms that prevented any startle at the confluence of ages, and when she felt his hand on her shoulder.

What did she see, when he stepped around the chair to gaze steady down upon us? And what did he see, looking out from the dead land? Did he speak?

An apology, perhaps, for the plain truth. Or just the aching need of all the gone ones, no, not gone, but the lost ones, the need to reach down with a limpid hand, to stroke the finest hairs on the fontanelle, and to say without speaking,

Go on. We are watching.


GAH. Tomorrow, the hundredth poem, is going to be more awesome than this. But, this poeming has fixed my grouchbrain, and now I’m going to put it to bed. Happy Wednesday to you, readers of the poem. You keep me poemin’.