Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

  I believe black lives matter. No, that doesn't make me a baby-killer or anti-family (really?) as somebody claimed on Facebook. I believe LGBTQ lives matter. And I'm not an atheist as someone else insisted. I believe the Bible matters . That means I read it and pray it; I don't use it to beat up my neighbors or prop up my photograph. I believe immigrants matter . That doesn’t make me un-American. The judge who welcomed me to citizenship told me immigrants matter. I believe refugees matter. And I'm not a lawbreaker. I believe the homeless matter, and the hungry, and those evicted because they’re sick or they’ve lost their jobs and can’t pay the rent. I believe the physical health of the community and all its members matters, regardless of wealth and good fortune. I believe wearing masks can save lives.  I'm not drinking the kool-aid; I'm respecting the scientists who've spent their lives learning about epidemics. I believe the earth matter...

Standing on the corner watching streetlamp turns to rain. Memories like water drip; Broken promises on parched earth sip. The future learns to hope again.

From high in the sky    The world’s smaller and whiter While cloud-shine and oceans   Look on.                                               That chaos of waters Was cruellest slaughterer             Of deams. Who will notice We’re gone?                             The plane comes to land                        Of our futures. Now hope         Is undone.       ...

The greening shoot was almost lost in graying cold wet day. It trembled in a morning breeze. It shuddered as a teasing squirrel nipped its tip and fled. It shrank as dead beneath snow’s blanket fallen overnight, bewailed its plight. And then it reached for sun and shone, daffodil bright.

I wandered lonely as a cloud Beyond the hill, beyond the dale Beyond the lurking town and found Of daffodils a dream, a host But most of all found you. I wandered lonely, sad it seemed My fate to ever only seek Dark-clouded gray-clad winter ghosts Then I found you.

He knew how it worked. You wake up, go to the library, search the computer for job ads, then apply. Soon he’d be waking up on the street, exchanging ancient papers for yesterday’s news. But today he still has home and family, a suit that’s worn and shiny and smells a bit, a shirt with holes, and hope in his eyes. A sign at the dry-cleaners’ advertises: “Jobless? Neat your suit for the interview? Free cleaning inside.” A suit that’s clean, smells fresh and hides the holes! Yay! He got the job. The cleaner got his business. Life goes on.

It was after he lost his job that his closed his eyes. Why look at a sky that’s too far away to reach? Why look at trees that won’t offer shade, or flowers that refuse to bloom? Why look at grass that only grows ever fatter on your lost labors? Or at streams that flow to unavailable dreams? Why look at friends and family who mourn your guilt and sigh in sad despair at your failing skill? But the raincloud caught him unawares. The sun peeked round its corner to warm his smile. Then he found himself tripping over miracles.

Every word was a promise when the children were small. Every “Maybe,” “We’ll see,” “We’ll have to ask your Dad.” Every “I’ll try,” or “I’ll do my best.” And even every “No,” misheard as “Yes.” “But Mommy, you promised!” Their father was big on promises too. Phone-calls forgotten, floors un-swept, jobs she never applied for, all were pledges un-kept. The empty milk-carton in the fridge was proof she could never be trusted. In weary work and jobs unfinished, unstarted, she longed for sleep. “But I have promises to keep,” said the voice in her head as hope freed her heart.

When he was young, Tom’s life waited to sprout like a field of grain. Jen said hers was more like a patchwork quilt with the pattern unformed. They fell in love. As seasons passed, Tom sowed and planned the patchwork of his farm, marking the days by the patterns of sky. Jen’s design was home and family, shapes of their lives falling into place and filling with heedless joy. When Jen got ill, the fields contracted down to a single seed. The children wrapped their mother in a patchwork of quilts, and time was a teardrop in an inky sky.

Dan liked new inventions. His watch wound itself with the movement of his hand, and stopped the day he died. Silent, motionless, it sat like an empty reminder on the shelf. Dan’s widow turned her eyes toward the relic on her wrist, worn leather, ancient band, a wedding gift. She’d baked and busied and bothered and breathed all these years, keeping her own watch wound. But time comes around and love survives. Weary eyes measured the click and turn; weary hands stirred. Fingers coiled the spring again in readiness for day. Dan liked inventions. Marge enjoyed the kiss of memory.

These weren’t pearls. Gran’s pearls were creamy pale, and her wisdom like a candle in the wind. But this was Gran’s black and white necklace with separate strands that Jen liked to twist and tie between her hands. Gran wore them with the white dress for weddings and black for funerals. And Jen dressed in them secretly, sneaking peeks in Gran’s bedroom mirror. At Gran’s funeral, “Can I borrow them?” she asked and was given them to keep. So now she wears them with white and black, twisting the threads of joy and sorrow together like wisdom in the wind.

They look at me and all they see is something old, thrown away, and forgotten. A child’s blue shoe. Who cares what tale I’ll tell? “Something old, something new.” That’s what they say. “Something borrowed, something blue.” I was new the first time he wore me, the day they met. He climbed a tree – see the scuff-marks; then he fell, and never needed shoes again. She took my partner home and hid it away. Don’t look at me today. Look at the other shoe now – old, borrowed and blue while the two of them bind lives with love into one.

Endless possibilities were music to his ears—boundless vistas of mountain and valley, hopes and fears that spread the future before him. If he opened his eyes, lights would flash; crowds would roar; but the music was more. Let the clouds take his troubles. Let the songs of his wounded heart pour over his tears. He shrugged off friends; their comfort was too kind and too unreal. But the concert lifted his spirits and set him free. The beat revived. The vistas awoke. He survived. He did open his eyes. Endless possibilities were the song that soared in his soul.

When darkness grows When dreams slow down To drops and ticking clocks When shadows bleed away The words you want to say To me When all you’ve ever heard is lost In all you’ve wished and haven’t got When hopes become betrayal’s cost And anger’s sudden hurt is all you see When time won’t play your song no more Nor sing your tune So sore Your heart That’s when I’ve prayed for you Bright sunshine startles with its light Until the night’s Awake You say “Guess what” then I remember God Has always answered And His plan’s worked out okay Written for ReadWritePoem #19 sudden realization of the truth, inspired by startling answers to recent prayer

“Mom always said Granny wanted me to have this when she died. D’you remember the story, how Grandpa was waiting till he could afford a real diamond? Then Granny said ‘Let’s get married,’ so they bought this instead. “Diamond specks; that what it is I guess. Granny wound some thread all round ‘cause it was too big for her. Fits me just right. “I thought he might be buying a ring today; thought he was the one.” She sat alone with history and cat. Threads coming loose, she pulled them free; tied love to hope instead, and life goes on.