TWITTER TITS

‘Twas perhaps a nuthatch,

Pygmy, though,

Frenetically twitting,

Darting to and fro.

Five other frantic tits

chattered in a whirl

making so much noise

I thought it was a squirrel;

but no, there on the trellis,

and in the cherry tree,

flitting, twitting, small dun birds

on a morning spree.

I watched with fascination,

then ran to get my book

in hopes to find their pictures

while I had the chance to look.

Aha, could be a flock of bushtits!

Their bustling, frantic chatter

matching fully the description.

The noise increased…what was the matter?

Then I noticed below the trellis,

hiding in full sight,

Emil Catt sat lurking, stalk still,

hoping for a bite.

The tits did not think to fly away,

they could easily escape.

No, they clustered close together,

scolding Eem’s shining grey nape.

One silly little twit

even scuttled down a stake

taunting my hapless feline friend

who dared not a move to make.

Good, Lord, you noisy peepers,

why not just fly away?

I know you’re guarding nothing.

You just want the last say,

’bout who and what lives in my garden

on any given day!

Well, now your fun is over.

Emil’s gone back in the house,

and you all faded to another yard

to attack some different louse.

So now I have your number.

You love to weave and bob.

You’re not just stealing cherries,

You’re a tiny, twitting mob.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Letter to John et al 7-8-17

Gut’n Morgen…

Am just finishing up another read, The Women in the Castle by Jessica Shattuck.  Another WWII-post WWII Nazi-Germany tale about the wives of “resisters,” of which von Stauffenberg was one, who planned to murder der Fuerher.   In this novel, their husbands have all been hung for their treachery, all the wives have been scattered amongst the camps, used by the Nazis, or Russians, or whichever group finds them… the main character Marianne von Lingenfels searches for the wives and the children to bring them together to protect them, and to remind them there were “good” Germans who did not believe in the Fuerher’s madness.  We all know people like Marianne, who can tell you JUST how to live – it’s how she survives.  In fact, she reminds me of someone to whom I am related.

Anyway…the book has plenty of layers of intrigue…you get the sense how easily wickedness and laziness can lead to destruction, and how life moves on, people survive… I’ll be glad when it’s done, the book I mean…but I paid for it, by golly, so I will bloody well finish it…and will damned well like, I tell you!

Working from home gives me the sense that I’m living in E M Forsters story, The Machine Stops, wherein society has advanced to where people all live in their own comfortable, high tech “caves,” aware of people through their computers..plenty of warnings about a whole world outside…no one heeds the warnings, until one day the machine stops;  the provider of air, and food, and comfort grinds to a stop…emergency exits fly open, but people can no longer walk, and have no idea where to go, or how to get there…the machine is not there to tell them.  I laugh during the day, when I take a minute to stretch and stare out the window.  Three steps to the window, three steps to the chair, to sit again and email or skype my conversations.   My garden out my window  looks like the film of the beautiful garden Edward G. Robinson chose to have played in Soylent Green as he makes his transition from man to food.

A book I just finished, A Man Called Ove, is a great tale, me thinks, about a man who just wants to die to be with his late wife, but who is stymied at every, hilarious attempt at suicide.   In one part of the story (it takes place in socialist Sweden, mind you) he realizes that the government “men in white shirts” are coming to take his old friend/enemy neighbor away to a home, because the government has determined his wife can no longer care for him.  Ove is filled with purpose to stop this overreach…you applaud this small, non-violent, but clever and successful effort.

In this book, The Women in the Castle, I just read a blurb about one of the women remembering how her father, a doctor,  railed prewar against the communists and the Nazis, all the while losing patients to the new hospital across town built by the Nazis and offering FREE care.   Sounds like the urges of today’s Left to enthrall the masses with FREE stuff…mmm hmm…I’ve seen the “care” Medicaid offers, how it fails…and I hear the limits to care Medicare allows, leaving my now old friends and neighbors to fend for themselves.   All these protestors in today’s Germany crying out against the bourgeoisie (though with all their education, they do not think to call it this archaic term), decrying wealth and capitalism, think they have invented something new…that only they see the world as it is.  That their stupid vitriol will bring enlightenment and peace.  Stupid. They are caught on the Left’s treadmill of illusion.  All wishin’ and hopin’…no plan, no solution…

Once, when I was deep in therapy years ago, my counselor said that it appeared I think of five or six things at once.  I was so glad someone understood that…it’s like constant multidimensional thought, not always in alignment.   She went on to tell me that when I spoke with her, she wanted me to think of only one thing, and analyze THAT.    I stopped going to her.   Plus she wanted me to admit that I’d had this horrible experience of brutality growing up…I told her I would not proceed along that line of thinking, that if my mother found out, she’d kill me HAAAA. the counselor was so shocked…I thought it a fine joke.  So easy to demonize Mom…one woman who did what she could as well a she could…and it was good.      Why do they do that, counselors? Presume that all that got us where we are was horrid. That our fathers neglected us because they went to work to earn the money to feed, clothe and house us.  That our mothers were cruel to expect us to behave and succeed?   There are thunder and lightening in the midst of the most beautiful storms…why make them more than the wonders of nature they are?

Oh, don’t  I imagine myself this great thinker…HA   Once, when my first husband told me no wife of his needed to go to college, and would not be allowed to work, I went to the library, first for books about Richard Wetherill and Mesa Verde, thinking I would continue the anthropology studies I’d begun at Eastern.  I would write a dissertation about the Anasazi and the Hohokam before them, and become as famous as Mary Leakey with her Australopithicine.   Then I thought to study nuclear fission…since Rocky Flats was nearby, and its nuclear warheads were the focus of so much protest in the 70’s…Father Berrigan had moved from Vietnam War protest to nuclear warhead protests, and though I detested his involvement along with that of that nun who chained herself to the gates of Rocky Flats, I liked Fr. B’s comment,“Don’t just do something, stand there” – a 60s reminder of the need for political thought as well as action.   Too bad he did not practice what he preached.     Anyway, I thought I’d write this grand dissertation of the necessity of using nuclear fission, et fusion, to further the cause of progress.     Delusions of grandeur… Mom always said Grandma Herman had them…I kinda like ’em…

enough yammering…I need to go drive my Mini into the hills and find a lunch spot to sit and finish my book, with hotdogs and mustard and chocolate chip cookies, … Good day, Fellow Travelers… Hope to leave my cocoon soon to see each of you in your own habitat…

love ya, Rox

THE SECOND THIRD

Johanna was sixty five years old when she realized she was old enough to have gone at least three times around the world to every country, tasted every cuisine, felt every fabric, read a thousand books in at least three languages, none of them Spanish.  She thought she would go somewhere, at that right time, when she had the money, and a month’s paid vacation, but in her twenties she was raising a baby, then shedding herself of the husk of a man who was not the stuff of dream husbands.  Her thirties were somewhat adventurous with lovers and drunken, laughing nights in noisy restaurants, followed by  long weepy weekends doing laundry and scraping flower gardens out of patches of dirt around apartments.  She moved down valley from world famous Aspen, working at a bank, anticipating great adventures. There were beginnings, mind you, filled with soul soaring anticipation and friends enough to sing along on the trail up Mount Sopris, or Avalanche Creek.  There were people she would never forget; some who broke her heart, some she shrieked at, hating their binding restrictions.  Conferences in Philadelphia, visits to family in Florida, Massachusetts, expectations for more places to go, people to meet, missions to accomplish

In her forties, she moved back to the plains, jolly and excited and a little more selective about whom she took to bed.  Two husbands behind her, and plenty of time, surely.   Even in her fifties, there seemed no limits to the possibilities of life, even when her younger sister died, and her mom developed dementia, and long made promises came due.  Even then the skies shown blue, the roads stretched long, and she felt surely she would travel, taste and try it all.

Strangely, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer at age sixty one, she felt free.  She had her affairs in order.  She had the insurance to cover the expense of the bilateral mastectomy, and the time off to rest and recover with no worries.  She took writing classes, watched entire mini-series on Netflix, and generally felt better, freer, happier than she had in years; never mind the pain and fear. That could be managed. Family and friends checked in.  Books stacked high, and were read at leisure.  Life was damned good.

The next year was a total let down; lay offs from a couple jobs.  Younger, pretty, but stupid trainers for new companies left her crying and screaming to the door, preferring to be unemployed and worried, than tolerating blatant, pompous idiocy and nepotism.   The recover from then until now, age sixty five, was more difficult that she’d thought it could be, but she’d let the fatigue seep in, the sadness and unfairness of events found a hairline crack in her psyche, spreading insidiously like a water break in the walls, undetected until the mold grew, and the spongy sub-floor dripped uncontrollably.

GOODNESS GRACIOUS

Great ball of fire

climbing to the East

with miles of enflamed

striated clouds embracing it.

 

FLEDGLINGS

What privileged robins live in my back yard…

racing through the sprinkler, barely giving me any notice…

but WHO, may I ask, tipped over the big blue pot under the umbrella?

Hmm?

Emil Catt, was it you?

HERE’S TO THE DAD

PLAYING TIJUANA BRASS AS LOUDLY AS I CAN

IN HONOR OF OUR SOMETIMES CROSS-EYED, LONG GONE OL’ MAN

HERE’S TO THE “HARKS!” THE OCCASIONAL EYAH,

ALL THE LOVELY FLOWERS FROM HAWAI-YAH

CHEAP RED WINE; FRESH, HOT BREAD

ARM WRESTLING NIGHTS WITH STEVE AND WITH TED

WINNING KITES MADE WITH BOB

SLURPY DINNERS WITH CORN ON THE COB

ERIC ON HIS SHOULDERS AS THEY “WALKED THE RANCH,”

LOUD, LOUD MUSIC THAT MADE US ALL DANCE

LOUD GUITAR STRUMMIN’,

MOM ALWAYS HUMMIN’

TOUGH AS NUTS, BUT A SOFT OL’ TOUCH

WE COULD MAKE HIM MAD, BUT NOT TOO MUCH

AS ONE OF HIS GIRLS, ROX, MAG, RUTH

I’LL TELL YOU THE TRUTH

HE WAS PRETTY DAMNED COOL

SOMETIMES ACTED THE FOOL

BUT ONLY TO GET US TO STOP OUR MOPING

I’M SURE WE BECAME THE PEOPLE FOR WHICH MOM AND HE WERE HOPING

SO IT’S ALL GOOD

LET’S SHARE SOME GOOD FOOD

AND A LAUGH OR TOO

AND RAISE A GLASS OF HOMBRE

THAT’S IT

I’M DONE…

MIDNIGHT MASS ON WALKER

 

 

Howling wind strafed the runway, rang the steeple bells, edged into every crease in the glass filled every nose and eyelash with grit. We stood to sing, knelt to pray, and pounded our breasts when the communion bells rang.  How our heads ached.

Santa came while we were out.

50 word story  6/16/17

 

 

 

 

HOT SUN DAY

Emil Catt staring at the hole in the wall;
mesmerized by the possible appearance of a bunny;
bombarded by an angry mama bluebird,
which makes no bones about claiming the crusts of bread
I tossed out beneath the apple tree on my little hill.
Emil does not want your crust of bread, Mama…
He wants rabbit for dinner.
6/7/17

SATURDAY, EARLY

This morning,

early,

before the traffic…

before even the neighborhood dogs were out snuffling in their yards,

I hit the open space…

all the birds were in diversionary action mode…

robins, running ahead of me, away from their nests…

red finches flitting from tall grass to tall grass…

no coyotes, though, too late in the morning for them, I imagine. The sun had been up at least half an hour.

The grass in the gulch is not yet high enough to mow;

the willows promise to be full and greedy all summer long…

cattails just greening up…

and Emil Catt has begun a new habit of slurping his morning drink of water from the day lilies, coming back into the house soaking wet, and leaving paw prints on the new wood floor in the kitchen…

and now it’s 8:15

so the day’s work must begin

the luxury of a slow morning

packed up until tomorrow…

6/3/17

MEMORIAL DAY, 2017

I could not find you today, James.

Too many flags. Too many headstones. Too many names.

I thought I would never forget just where they placed you.

Near the flag pole above the lake, with all proper ado,

Among others from the Gulf and other wars

With a view of the beautiful, wide outdoors

below ye.

You were, and are loved, my dear young friend;

You worked hard to make good, then went ’round the bend.

You died much too early at your very own hand

in a blast to your head from your pistol; a broken man,

while your bitch of a wife stood yelling how unfair you were to her.

You went to war, but it was always, always all about her.

I could go on…

but I really only wanted to say I couldn’t find you today,

but I looked… I looked… and I still pray

for the repose of your soul, that your heart has healed;

the full purpose of your life finally revealed.

Some say suicide is a coward’s way out,

but knowing you, I have no doubt

it was your perfect solution for all your pain.

I cannot find fault in your accurate aim,

though I selfishly wish you’d missed.

***

Peace be with you, James Edmond, USAF