Each
person I know,
have
known, will know
is
part of me, I take in weight
from
each experience,
this
is why I bend so low,
a
scoliosis of the spirit,
the
weight has compressed me,
curved
me,
I am a
curlicue of happenings,
good
and bad, a stone soup,
potpourri
in a spiral vase,
would
that I could straighten,
a tall
brass candlestick for a bright light
to
signal others to follow
yet I
cannot ask them to step along
this
crooked path--
my
steps have faltered often
pushed
into anxiety,
pulled
against propriety,
all
the while absorbing.
I
resemble one of those bulgy gourds
in the
grocery store, curved and hard-shelled.
I have
become myself by loving,
and not loving all of you.
Root
Cause
The
root continues
and
the new shoots show green
above
gray earth,
runners
expand their territory,
buds
form, expand, blossom,
go
to seed without conscious decision,
no
calendar or list to check off,
no
boss to whom to report “all done”,
just
normal response
to
regular stimuli.
No
displays of independence/argument/dissention
What
is thought then,
that
twists us,
makes
of us squabbling siblings,
uncooperative
children,
scientists and mystics?
Sun-Love
You are the one, the solid that keeps me,
the mass that puts my pieces back together each day,
it is you and the knowledge of you that developed
my understanding of everything, and my adoration.
Yes, it’s true, I have a crush on Rain each time he comes,
but he is erratic in his attention, blows hot and cold,
I’d like to be able to count on him, but,
he can be overwhelming at times, while you are always you.
Wind hangs around a lot, spouting this and that,
throws a temper tantrum sometimes,
quite childish in his moods,
with dirty language when he’s riled,
I ignore him when he’s like that,
his shrieks and poundings. You are so quiet.
I’ve flirted with Fog as she ballerinas
across the front lawn in her diaphanous gown,
her twirls and lifts are quite romantic
and I’ve joined her for a step or two
among the rugged almond orchards,
along the gray cement canals.
But you know how shy she is with you,
she’ll never spend much time once you appear.
And you always do.
I’ve given Clouds directions to other landing sites
so they won’t occupy space
so close to me that you and I can’t be together.
Sometimes their mischief is rather mean,
and they lie flat right above, such tiresome attitudes.
There’s not a tree around that doesn’t understand
I don’t need their shelter.
I am yours, all yours, all day,
and while I know at times your travels must
cut my time short, I mourn those shorter days,
but revel that always you are there
my own true, everlasting love.
Accept these wild meanderings
that travel up to you on heartbeats,
send me back a warm kiss.
The
Cookie-Baker’s Family
The
cookie-baker’s family came today
with
their $5 and $10 boxes,
and
I traded my last cash
for
a lovely box of fancy.
I
bought not only pleasures
but
their time in conversation,
father
and son, wife/mother’s work
presented
with pride at
a
stranger’s door. Good people.
And
I crave more good people
like
a drug, can’t get too many,
can’t
get enough although my life
is
filled with goodness.
And
I am not alone, all around they are,
up
and down my street, in the stores,
on
the streets and rivers and skies!
I
inhale them, hug them, taste and devour.
I
become them.
My
last cash
bought
me
goodness. a little more.
To
Begin
(an
acrostic)
Before
you step into the day,
remember
what the wise ones say,
each
movement needs a place to start,
and
every muscle plays its part:
tense,
relax, and tense again,
how
your body should begin,
each
breath a miracle on its way.
Cleo Griffith has been widely published in journals such as Main Street Rag, Straylight, and Westward Quarterly. She has been on the editorial board of Song of the San Joaquin since it began in 2003. She lives with her cats, Amber and Mister, and an assortment of barn swallows, lizards, scrub jays and other creatures in Salida, California among the artist-of-all-kinds-rich environment of the California Central Valley. Her first book The Yellow Dress was published in September, 2025.
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