Free-Fall

 

 —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox

 

 

FALLING

We are in a state of perpetual free-fall. Falls between crawling and walking. Falls off the slide, off the swings. Falls off the skateboard. Falls into and out of love. Falls downstairs. Falls when we can’t get up.

Not to mention how time falls forward, how time flows from summer into fall. How time shoves us into the final fall of death.

So often we fall, unaware
of perpetual motion,
shadows falling with the dusk.

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER THE FIRE

We were two logs combusting,
tangled twigs that torched,
sparks shooting in the air.

It was a blazing lust
that baked and burst.
Nothing survived.

 

 

 

 

FAT LOVE

Imagine me, a rubber ball my dog could barely carry, a dust bunny too large to hide, proclaiming dust is glory. Imagine me, too fat to care for dirty floors, dishes piled in the sink, too fat with love to hear the gossip of the neighbors as they gawk at disarray and worry I am crazy.

I can’t plan for love.
I can’t store it in the pantry
for a rainy day.

 

 

 

 

 

BACK TO THE WALL

My back is to the wall.
It’s where age shoves me.
Escape routes now
elude me, come disaster
I am planted where
I stand. Or fall.

My back is to the wall.
I take my seat there.
I want to eat there
So I can stare down
Death when he sits down.

 

 

 

 

RUINATION

My mother’s ghost is a church in ruins, a hymnal with pages torn out, the organist in the loft with no choir. My mother didn’t believe while alive, but her ghost reaches for God in the moonlight.

My mother’s ghost
is a graveyard
of lost souls.

 

 

 

GIVINGNESS

What I would give to give you a kiss, ruffle your hair, ask how you are. Miniscule moments that add up to years that I’ve loved you. I know I don’t tell you enough you are anchor, a rock, when I’m lost in the waves of my pain.

I ask you if I give enough,
you just look at me, say,
“Yes, of course.”

 

 

 

 

PARTS

I have my father’s mother’s eye droop,
my mother’s mother’s dimples.

I have my father’s father’s high cholesterol,
my mother’s father’s migraines.

I have my father’s sense of humor.
I have my mother’s arthritis and hives.

When am I going to put all the parts together
and see the elephant I really am?

 

 

 

DANCE MECHANICAL

I loved to dance. At least I loved the idea of moving out of my body. A body that couldn’t breathe. A sick body. A frail body. Even in dance, my body trapped me. I was a stick figure. A mechanical pencil. I couldn’t escape. I stopped dancing.

Jewelry box ballerina,
wind me up,
watch me twirl.

 

 

 

 

INVASIVE BEAUTY

The wild roses, hollyhocks that grow where we don’t want them, we call weeds. We want them elsewhere. We don’t care for scents and tints, for butterflies and birds. We blame the wind. We blame the rain.

Are we
the weeds
that want to take control?

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SPOILED ROTTEN
—Nolcha Fox

My baby’s at the doggy spa
to soak in some special time.
Cucumber slices on her eyes,
she’ll eat them, by and by.
She’s wrapped in comfy towels
that will keep her warm.
And while she sleeps
her doggy dreams,
I will pay the bill.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox  for her fine poetry and visuals today, and to Joe Nolan for these fox kits in honor of Mother's Day to come~

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 

Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that there will be
a reading (and open mic) at
Cameron Park Library today,
featuring Beatrice Pizer and
Annette Carasco, 5:30pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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