Real Toads – That Was Close!

This is for Real Toads. Margaret gave us a prompt from a song – Cruel. This is about going bad, getting good again, going back, and growing up. I hope this comes close.  http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/ This is also for Poets United Poetry Pantry http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Close but no Cigar
He was right where I had left him 15 years earlier –
lying on a folding lounge chair in the back
of his beat up Chevy.
This lounger was red and yellow.
The previous one was blue and white.
There was a hole in sole of his beat up cowboy boots –
his broken in cowboy hat was pulled down over his eyes –
as I got closer, I could see his jeans and shirt were clean,
but patched and faded.
For 40 he still looked slim and trim and buff.
I wondered how his face had changed.
I walked up slowly and quietly crunching gravel under my boots.
I pulled myself up on the truck bed and he moved.
His hat shifted back and his eyes opened wide and surprised.
“Shit.” He said. “Never thought I’d see you again.”
He spoke in that soft Oklahoma twang he’d kept
after all these years.
I smiled ruefully. “He left”.
“So, that cat left you and now you feel like you
gave him the best years of your life? Hmmmmn.”
I could see lines around his yes and mouth.
He stood up and pulled me up to him
and kissed me, like he used to.
His mouth tasted of bourbon and pot.
“You know, leaving me was the smartest thing you ever did.
Say goodbye again. I’m still no good for you.
You’ll chew your leg off like a wolf in a trap.”
I shrugged.
“We’ve know each other a lotta years,
since high school.” I spoke.
He touched my face with his hand.
“Go away. Now. While you can.”
I just had to see him again,
To prove myself wrong.
They say all good things must end.
We were so good we never stood a chance.
so I went back to his apartment with him.
And then left after we made love.
Damn, I barely missed that bullet.

Poets United: Midweek Motif

I have been out of the poetry rounds for several weeks due to problems with my eyes.  The MD has cleared me and I am back on the circuits again.  This is about a stray tuxedo tom who I began feeding a couple of autumns ago.  I didn’t want to love him, I just wanted to feed him.  But I fell in love of course.  I called him Nobody’s Cat.  I am posting this for Poets United Mid-week Motif on animals.  http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2017/10/poets-united-midweek-motif-animals.html

The Potting Shed

The old potting shed is slowly returning to the earth
settling down on its crumbling stone foundations,
roof slates cracked or missing,
paint fading and flaking.
The fact remains that underneath
Nobody’s Cat burrowed in during the last snow
And died.
Daffodils’ green spears are thick and lush
around the perimeter of the old building.
the flowers stand like mourners
around a grave
as the sun slowly sets
in an explosion of
saffron ginger turmeric curry –
spiced winter day
ends in a flurry of last
waves of goodbye

 

 

dVerse Poetics – Goodbye too soon – harunoshimo

Abhra is the host for todays’s prompt which is saying goodbye too soon or saying goodbye when you didn’t/don’t mean it. Interesting prompt. Last year, I said goodbye to winter too soon and then BAM!!!! Major frost. So here is the tanka I wrote at that time because I said it too soon. Come join us over at dVerse for some what I know will be interesting and different takes on this prompt. Have you ever said goodbye and didn’t mean it?


Tanka for Spring Frost (春の霜 harunoshimo)
warm spring day – cherry
blossoms – clouds of pink and white
under bright blue skies –
in the night frost silently
covers and kills all
winter is not yet gone – too
soon goodbye said to winter

free public domain image frost damage

free public domain image frost damage

 

 

The Tee Shirt – 02/01/1987 – 02/01/2013

In the back of my closet,
In the darkest corner behind and
Under other innocuous cardboard boxes,
is the cardboard coffin containing
the detritus of a past life.
In the bottom of that box is
Your teeshirt, worn the last night
We were together.
Quadruple plastic bags, sealed,
One in the other, guarding the tee shirt.
Rarely, I pull the box out.
I sift through memories:
The chopsticks you gave me on our first date.
Your shaving mug with the last bit
Of soap sealed in its own bag.
Cards, haiku, stubs to Springsteen concerts,
A black and white photo of you at the age of six.
A black and white photo of you in the library
At the University of London.
Cherry blossoms long since turned to dust,
Our sake set.
The tee shirt.
When I am feeling extremely
Masochistic, I pull out the shirt.
I close my eyes and flagellate myself
Until my soul is ragged and bloody
With memories.
Only then can I open the bags with the shirt.
Open each until I can touch the tee shirt.
Inhale deeply the scent. After all
This time, it still smells of you.
I gently touch inside
The shirt, where it last touched your skin.
Sandalwood, whiff of jasmine, the unique
Smell of you mingled with the other smells.
I close my eyes. Your face as you said goodbye.
You didn’t have to go back.
You could have stayed.
Over and over and over, back and forth.
I didn’t have to stay.
I could have gone with you.
Over and over and over, back and forth.
I touched your face and your lips,
Damp with tears that would not be stopped.
You said, “I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul.”
I turned and walked away.
I did not look back.
I sat in my car being ripped apart
By grief, by love, by…….I don’t know.
I finally drove away.
On my pillow lay you tee shirt.
A sacred shroud, I put it away,
Sealed it safely from light and harm.
One last smell before the ritual
Re-sealing of the bag,
Inside the other bags,
Stowing away at the bottom of the box.
Sliding back to the darkest corner of the closet
And re-stacking the other boxes.
Closing the closet door
Walking away – again.

%d bloggers like this: