FOOLING HERSELF.

Jeanne Adwani ~ geezer girl

Dark-Red-Lis

day 1 NaPoWriMo

~~~

She wasn’t much for the silly.

There was no pun in her to mention.

A laugh required an awkward moment,

    maybe even a fumbled narrative about

    the courtship of humans in that messiness

    of figuring the ‘Other’ out.

~

That seemed silly to her, all that figuring

    it out, all that otherness, all that fumbling

    around for connection in the pet and grind.

The getting to know you in the stumble of

    words, lingering stares, lips that desire.

She figured that was pretty silly.

~

She figured there was no giggle in any of that

    in her stuttered awkwardness

Her hands twined around her loneliness

Wishing the yearning would dissolve

   out of her heart’s hungry want.

Where was the silly in any of that?

~

She tried to look away

She…

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Today I Saw

A poem called:

At Quarter to Five

by Angela Janda

I was feeling lonely so
I went outside to the wind
swept yard and beyond
that to the wind-tousled outer
yard and found where last
night in the moonlight we left
two sets of boot prints, when
you stopped on your way
through the darkness to bring a
lemon bar and a movie, and
beside ours the tracks of the
smallest thing with claws, which
must have followed sometime
later. And I chased its tiny prints
and our mud-wash indents to
the far back gate and through
the gate out to where the
land is still dirt and brush
and bushes and cow
pies, my hair pinned
to my head but still blowing,
blowing, and finally a hard
breath, and I could see
through lonely to the wide
open, long blue lines of sunset,
moonlit night, the airplanes trailing
one another
down to tarmac, all those
people landing home.


Today I saw

A poem, by William Wordsworth called:

It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year,
And worship’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.


From this Wordsworth seed,  grew this: (rather quickly)

Evening’s Rattle

It is a beautiful evening
holy, quiet, calm and free

I run and run toward
the broad sinking sun
until breathless with adoration
I bow, hands on knees

Listen, the twig is awake
and clicking with eternal motion
barely audible over my
breath and thundering heart
barely audible over the deep
fast flowing creek
the giver of resonance

Dear God and God again
who here with me runs.
I hear you!
hear you tapping
tapping out your thoughts
solemn simple clear
sacred code of nature

My inner twig rattles