Weathervane – a tiny true story
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Eyes pointed at the sky. Melody clear and perfect settled on the roof. Tiny voice filling the air. Delicate hollow bones balancing on the weathervane. Seems decades ago we discovered the wrought iron fixture at the flea market; a creaky dive with discarded toys, Post-Depression tools and miles of missing teeth. We anchored the wind reader, with its proud patina horse, to the garage peak. There, our valiant filly galloped through the atmosphere till her strong legs could no longer outrun the wind. Somehow, the compass remained intact.
On the dull backdrop of another chilly overcast day, my little bird friend has chosen one metal branch above the others. As I listen to sunrise songs floating down to the driveway, I assign new meaning to the weathervane. S for Sun—for you, the warmth in our lives no matter the weather.
“I will die at the right time” new poem published on the fabulous Her Story Blog – I hope you check out this wonderful venue of expression
I Will Die at the Right Time
At this rate, there will be nothing left for my children. Too much
falling outside the body. A two-headed llama with no head
belonging to me.
all to them
unintentionally by them
Losing ability to see value by which aging matters. Watching
bone-slow deterioration. Using my frame to anchor relations.
Trying to deduce life’s meaning–endgame research.
Sowing seeds of pain in backward gardens planted with wrinkling flesh,
falling from porous skeletons.
fire, grace, motion, lightning
without remorse from each sunrise.
The silver-edge moon no longer sensual,
goading their last warm breaths.
Not doing this to my flesh and blood.
I will die at the right time.
acrylic painting done a few years ago
Spring, summer, fall and winter pull each other along on their wayward journey. The Seasons ride their own express train. This locomotive’s spinning wheels are unaffected by barometric change. Rainbow boxcars screech as they hustle along the sparking track. Chuckling snowmen have begun jumping off the sidecars, holding balls of ice in their soft red mittens. Winter has arrived in North America.
I wish Season’s express train would ‘snowdown’ once in awhile and let life catch up…
Thank you. Dream beneath warm blankets of joy this night…
Galeen atop Snowman’s Head, rolled out several days ago with warm markers in hand.
All last week, before the giant husband and I began our daily 5 AM walk, we could hear the ‘local’ coyotes howling with abandon. Their sad, almost infant-like wails echoed through the woods at the end of our cul-de-sac. The raw cacophony was lyrically unnerving.
This morning, however, the coyotes melodic cries were too close for comfort. Though the giant husband and I probably outweighed their pack by at least two-hundred pounds, I gripped my trusty Swiffer and the giant husband carried his heavy-duty halogen flashlight. I guess our plan was to dust them off, then show them the light 😉
When I mentioned to the giant husband that the howling could be from the elusive Chupacabra, he howled like a coyote. I told him that in Puerto Rico, 1995, goats were found with lethal puncture wounds and their bodies drained of blood. The name Chupacabra literally translates to ‘goat sucker’ in Spanish. And since the discovery of the gruesome ‘vampiresque’ goat scene, there have been random attacks on all manner of livestock. Eyewitnesses have reported Chupacabra sightings from Maine, USA to Chile to Russia…
Some folks take Chupacabras’ legend quite seriously, while others believe they are simply coyotes with mange… Below is my version of the mysterious Chupacabra. So, what do you think: Are there coyotes with mange prowling about, or could blood-sucking Chupacabras be real? Or should I just continue toting my trusty Swiffer?
Thank you. May you dream of friendly monsters with fluffy fur.
Chupacabra created in 2009 for monster project
Blogtox injection – 5 days to go