scented blossoms
in the crowded room
best friend's wake
hospital shop
on the window display
masked plush bears
rehab reception
lining against the wall
folded wheelchairs
flowing stream
on the ceiling monitor --
dental drills
faltering faith --
on the floor
pieces of Mary statue
tuning my guitar
outside the study
yellow leaves shivering
By Tuyet Van Do
Beasts and Vanities
When all the world has gone to fire
and nothing’s left of man or beast
when earth is leveled of its growth
of nature and man’s vanities,
where then will all our wishes lie,
that we so honored with our lives?
We’ve searched for meanings all our lives
swum the rivers, stoked the fire,
searched for truth, turned from lie,
tamed our inner selfish beast,
sought to soften vanities,
pledged our children to our growth,
monitored and measured growth
as a mainstay for our lives,
conquered our worst vanities,
harnessed wind, earth and fire,
saved the oceans, saved each beast,
pledged to truth, not to lie.
When in our beds at night we lie
we plan for equalizing growth,
wished to save each bird, each beast,
supported even tiniest lives,
fought to save the world from fire,
that was the last of our vanities.
We didn’t think them vanities--
grandiose dreams that within us lie
but thought our passion and our fire
could guarantee the constant growth
of all the souls and all the lives
of every man, woman, beast.
We never saw that we’re the beast--
that claimed god-power vanities
thus dooming all the sacred lives
because we could not see our lie--
when we thought we promoted growth
but ended with the world on fire.
How sad that fire sparked from this beast
who planned for growth, while vanities
proved us to lie, such wasted lives.
Caregiving
There was no lighthouse
on that stormy island,
that unknown territory,
no guidance for us,
just the shipwreck
and the need to continue,
if not to sail
at least to survive
on that new land.
We did find milestones
as we wandered,
and guides,
sometimes a taut string
to follow
through
darkness.
We strengthened,
we settled,
we survived,
we did our very best
in the land without
lighthouse.
Complaint
What potion did Faust drink?
The devil delivered something more special
than even Amazon can…
youth serum, hmmm
never turns out well in the old stories.
But in my dreams I am never senior,
I hear the same from others.
Strange that the subconscious
cannot admit our own reality.
What good is a subconscious
if it isn’t helping us with these
ponderous thoughts?
Is there really a “subconsciousness”?
Or is that another fantasy
like happy endings.
Notice, no question mark.
Oh, never mind, don’t really
want to go backwards, it was
too hard getting here the
first time.
I’m happy with my coffee.
Happy with my lemonade.
NOT happy with my age.
Or did I make that clear?
Fandango’s, Pacific Grove, CA
Three widows, two of us introduced the third,
my daughter’s mother-in-law and good friend,
to where my husband and I had spent
at least half of our fifty-nine anniversaries.
The maître d’ and waiter served us with
smiles and the expected great food,
while we chatted and laughed,
enjoyment in each other and the town
on this little get-away to the beach.
When we left, we two older ones with take-home boxes,
the maître d’ came running after us,
“Were you leaving without saying goodbye?”
We all laughed and thanked him again.
“See how good it is to have a young pretty woman
with us?” Ramona asked. Elizabeth demurred,
but I was compliant with that explanation.
The scenes around us were full of memories
for all of us, reminding us of husbands and sons
no longer here, and of the strength of us,
this trio, this band of laughing, hardy women,
who would come back to Fandango’s
until we can’t.
Focus
Today the texture beneath us is rugged,
non-slip protection
against the sloppy unknown
which like a drooling beast shuffles toward us
just out of sight,
a huge mass made invisible by our focus
on the next step
only the next step
and only the tread against our feet
reminds us that we move,
but as we move texture changes,
no longer non-slip rubber but steep-hill slick
and the surprise dashes us downward,
we’re bottomed again, battered,
and though we are dampened by the beast’s breath
we pull ourselves up.
From our bodies we build the stairway,
climb our bones to the top and keep our eyes open,
clench our teeth and lay down non-slip texture again.
Today is just another day.
Cleo Griffith has been on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin since its inception in 2003. She has been published in Cider Press Review, Main Street Rag, Miller’s Pond, More Than Soil, More Than Sky: The Modesto Poets, POEM and many others.
scented blossoms in the crowded room best friend's wake hospital shop on the window display masked plush bears rehab reception lining ...
