Random Scribbles · writing

October Moon



The rumble of engines echoed off the hillsides in the dusk as they arrived one at a time

A shiny new Jeep

A silver SUV

A dusty old Buick Roadmaster

The Subaru and the Bultaco got there together, last to arrive

They each took their places on large stones arranged in a circle and passed a bottle around, watching the moon, not speaking at all

Old friends, unafraid of silence

When it was dark enough, they rose as one; let down their grey hair, and began discarding their clothes

They availed themselves of one last pull on the bottle each before picking their way up to the top of the ridge where they danced in the light of the full Autumn moon

Silently

Each hearing her own music; until after awhile, just like they arrived

One at a time, they would stop

And singly, walk down from the ridge, collecting clothes and deciding to either put them back on, or toss them in the backseat before driving away

Back to their husbands and wives; their children and grandchildren

Back to their houses, their kitchens; and their jobs at the market, the clinic, or the roadhouse

A cloud of dust trailing behind, they each left slowly with

Yellow spears of light leading the way, helping them navigate the path through the desert, and back to the highway.

Random Scribbles · writing

Without You

Blogging U.



At last I find the stuff I seek – Enough

Cocaine to last a week – and I would give it all to you – ‘Cause it’s

Raining down like silver

Ocean tides will ebb and flow

Sunsets grab and won’t let go – I take

Taxi rides to nowhere – without you

I feel nothing – I don’t know what’s true

Cause I numb the pain  with this Cocaine – trying to forget you


Random Scribbles · writing

A Slow Comfortable Death

 ODP



 

Lying on your death bed – you’re
Weakened
Sore
Frail

She sits across the room from you – she’s
Smiling
Smug
Content

When the doctor comes in – he’s
Busy
Reading your chart
Scribbling notes

She feigns concern for his sake
Asking
About doses
And food

You struggle to tell him but
You’re unable to speak
This is all her fault, Doc
You should call the Police

She’s been killing me slowly
For 53 years
Buying me cigarettes
Buying me beers

Basted eggs and bacon
Donuts galore
She’d say Here you go honey
And serve up some more

The things that she did will make me pass away
But chances are I would have died anyway so

When I’m gone please remember I had a good life
Primarily due to the love of my wife

Random Scribbles · writing

Home Alone


 

I swirled the last of the amber liquor a couple of times then tilted the glass back and drank. But I didn’t just drink, I held it in my mouth, I savored it. I inhaled deeply, with my nose in the glass, as it flowed and, I swallowed slow – enjoying the heat as it spread from my throat outwards, warming all the way down to my toes.

I glanced up on the shelf. Checking the statuette of ‘Black Jesus’ that I had bought at the Goodwill when I was ten years old, I was very protective. Fifteen dollars, it had cost, but in my eyes he was priceless. Carved obsidian; about four inches tall with one hand holding his robe and the other held out as if to welcome me, to bless me, or to forgive me for sins I had yet to commit.

I opened the small box on the coffee table and gazed at the cassette tapes it contained. Bootleg recordings of poetry. Some read by the poets themselves and others read by a proxy. Among others, I thumbed past Dickinson, Frost, Yeats, and Whitman. I removed and set aside the tape labeled “Rich”. I knew what this tape contained and thought that the symbolism might be just what I needed tonight, but it was too early to commit.

I looked deeper into the box and came across Angelou whose simple truths I always found enlightening. I set this aside as well. Thumbing through several more, I was nearing the end of my collection when I came across Thomas and Neruda, whose tapes were side by side in the box. Thomas might be too cerebral for an evening with 12 year old whiskey, or maybe not. I set him aside as well. It was not an evening for love poems so I left Neruda in the box. Not tonight, not tonight.

I had pulled Rich, Angelou, and Thomas, so it was from these that I must choose. My hand hovered over each in turn until it finally came to rest on Rich. I returned the other two carefully to their box.

Placing the tape into the player I depressed “PLAY”, closed my eyes and waited until the voice of the poet, reading her own words began to sooth me. The poem was “Diving into the Wreck” from the book of the same name published in 1973.

I allowed her words to wash over me in waves, to transport me, until the final stanza when I leaned forward and increased the volume:

“We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.”

I hit “REWIND” and listened to the sounds of the tape backing up until I got to where I believed the final stanza began. I listened to it one more time and pressed “STOP”.

More whiskey appears in the glass that I raise to ‘Black Jesus’.

“Here’s to Ms. Rich,” I tell him, “Take good care of her. She’s a treasure.”

He smiled ever so slightly and nodded his head.


No prompt – Just something I needed to write.