Romance matured

So.
I eat dinner
at the kitchen table.
Or watching a movie.
Or standing up.

And I enjoy that.
If I think of it
at all.

You can’t eat romance
and flowers are probably poisoned
by some pesticide.
Candles put out CO2.
(But I dabble in all of those from time to time.)

You could say this
phase
of our relationship
is old hat, needs new life, lack a certain pizzazz.
Maybe.

We’ve grown and achieved
accumulated comfort,
relatively,
raised kids.
That’s all in the past
but they’ve marked us
with their stamp.

And we live on
perhaps to create
to learn/relearn
what remains unmarked
and unaccustomed
and unenjoyed.

We do our own
things
help others
make something better
if we can
but enjoy the
company
none-the-less
at the kitchen table
or living room
or standing up.

Just so.

-2011/03/15-

-this is a response to the song “I Eat Dinner (When The Hunger’s Gone)” words and music by Kate McGarrigle which was done so beautifully on the album Heartbeats Accelerating and by (Kate’s son) Rufus Wainwright and Dido. I love listening to this sad song but, usually, the lyrics just don’t apply to me. Romance is only part of a relationship to me.

Uncontained

It took
Mom’s funeral
to bring me home.

Or what had been home
41 years ago.

The gravity was a killer
but it was nothing like the sky,
the magnified sun,
the big everything else.

I’m a Lunie now.
My wife, kids, were born there.
Adjusted to being enclosed and liking it.
We are the tunnelers.
Comfortable in the small
spaces where
you can count your breaths.

But, then, coming down
was not what I expected.
Sky blue with mashed potato clouds?
Somehow no.

I was thinking
gravity gravity gravity
the whole way down the
Clarke Elevator.
For I’m a very strong man
on the Moon
on Earth I’d be the weakest of children.

But in the wheelchair
on the ground
terrorized and fascinated by
a night time full of stars
my head lolling
I shut down. Passed out.
It was all that outer space.
Over-the-damn-top-whelmed.

I still get nightmares.
All far larger than
anything possible.
Yet nothing but thin air.
Me falling
up into vastness.

Then I had to fly to make the service.
It at least looked like a
secure tunnel but those windows
kept reminding me.
Held up by nothing more than air.
The airline had inexpensive drugs
to unscare my wits.

Courage and
a litre of airport whisky
was pretty much how
I managed the cemetery.
Loved that wheelchair.
Even if I could have stood
I couldn’t have.
Racing the chair’s motor
from tree to tree
was how I kept from seeing
the falling up sky.

And gravity? Ha!
I loved that gravity.
Crush me more, gravity!

My wonderful mother
was gone and I miss
talking and laughing with her
terribly
but, in that agony,
the urn couldn’t be placed
into that damn niche
fast enough.

The family must have found
my speedy answers
drunk
and bolting for the van
incredibly rude.
I couldn’t help it.
And was so grateful
to be back indoors.

The rest of the trip I lied.
I had to stay inside to keep
from sunburn.
The gravity was
simply too much.

But I was the happy guest of honor:
fine with cards,
better with a drink,
loved meeting my grand-niece.
See the sights? God no!
I just want to talk!

My last day
I remember very little
as I took three pills
found in Mom’s sleeping meds.

There were tears in my eyes
after I woke
far above the atmosphere
on the ride up.
A stewardess offered help.
No.
Just happy.
I’m almost home.

-Tyco Enclave 2038/01/14-

Turtle

You have so few natural enemies
don’t you?
Who could get past that armour?

Only the most dangerous animal on Earth.
Of course.

I close my eyes
and imagine you
receiving another body blow
from one of us.
Spinning edge up.
Left wobbling there
on your plastron fulcrum.
Knocked hard again and landing on your
hollow-sounding back.
Down to rocking side to side
seemingly endlessly
on the hard asphalt
until someone gets you dead on.
And your killer probably
didn’t even know it.

But you were such a success,
worldwide,
until we popped up.

Annihilation in the West.
Prepackaged meat for the voyage in the bad old days
but now we’re kinder and
drain your habitat away for our money pits.

Poached to extirpation in the East.
Because, this is rich, you live a long time.

And what of the world
you hold up asking nothing in return?
Our western Indians
went only that far
Real Indians put in elephants too.
But the Africans
show our love hate more accurate
for they consider you either the
wisest of animals
or a trickster.

I can only hope you have
enough tricks up your shell for us.
You’ll need to hide far
deep
cold
and long enough to outlive us
for we are the Joker and laugh as we kill.

And not the Cesar Romero version either.
No.
We are the psychopathic Heath Ledger version.

-2010/10/6&19-