—Poetry by Linda Klein, Los Angeles, CA
—Public Domain Illustrations
IN THE EVENING
Faint, sporadic voices coming from the street,
the words are indiscernible, but it doesn't matter.
They belong to that other world.
All that matters is that I am home.
It is the end of another day.
Ahead are the hours that belong to me alone.
I run water in the bathtub, hot, but not prohibitively so.
I can refresh it by adding more hot water later.
Moving slowly as the tub fills, I undress,
placing each item on the granite-topped vanity.
Then I swing my left foot over the side of the tub
to test the water temperature with my toes.
Finding it satisfactory, I slide in, holding on to the grab bar.
This is the way it should be, settled, immersed in hot liquid,
warm, vaporous air kissing my face and arms.
I sing my mantra aloud, sweetly, asking the water
to take away my cares as I melt into it.
A perfumed smell from the smooth, oval soap bar
covers my body as I lather the soap on.
I study the art prints on the opposite wall,
mothers attending their children.
I remember my own mother, who looked so much like them.
She used to bathe me when I was a child.
My tears mingle with the vapors in the room, soothing tears.
Faint, sporadic voices coming from the street,
the words are indiscernible, but it doesn't matter.
They belong to that other world.
All that matters is that I am home.
It is the end of another day.
Ahead are the hours that belong to me alone.
I run water in the bathtub, hot, but not prohibitively so.
I can refresh it by adding more hot water later.
Moving slowly as the tub fills, I undress,
placing each item on the granite-topped vanity.
Then I swing my left foot over the side of the tub
to test the water temperature with my toes.
Finding it satisfactory, I slide in, holding on to the grab bar.
This is the way it should be, settled, immersed in hot liquid,
warm, vaporous air kissing my face and arms.
I sing my mantra aloud, sweetly, asking the water
to take away my cares as I melt into it.
A perfumed smell from the smooth, oval soap bar
covers my body as I lather the soap on.
I study the art prints on the opposite wall,
mothers attending their children.
I remember my own mother, who looked so much like them.
She used to bathe me when I was a child.
My tears mingle with the vapors in the room, soothing tears.
BIRDS OF PREY
They're never content.
They must continually feed,
not just on the stale bread crumbs
you throw in the air.
They scramble and scratch.
You watch them tear at each other,
wishing you never sought after them,
wishing they would fly away,
not just to achieve distance, but dimension,
not just physically, but far
from mind and memory.
Stubbornly they stay,
pecking at you, picking at you.
Your agony, your pleas please them.
They persist, not just to annoy,
but to destroy. Why?
It's their way, to spread the disease
of hate, to disarm, and harm.
Your cries of pain are, to them,
sweet strains of a dulcimer refrain.
They're never content.
They must continually feed,
not just on the stale bread crumbs
you throw in the air.
They scramble and scratch.
You watch them tear at each other,
wishing you never sought after them,
wishing they would fly away,
not just to achieve distance, but dimension,
not just physically, but far
from mind and memory.
Stubbornly they stay,
pecking at you, picking at you.
Your agony, your pleas please them.
They persist, not just to annoy,
but to destroy. Why?
It's their way, to spread the disease
of hate, to disarm, and harm.
Your cries of pain are, to them,
sweet strains of a dulcimer refrain.
GLEAMING RUST
In a pile of rubble on the porch was a rusty pipe,
a discarded piece of broken plumbing.
Its vivid rust colors stood out
among odd bits of trash, rags, and
newspapers, waiting for a collector.
There for months, the pile grew day by day. Apparently,
the sanitation department wasn't taking it away.
A young stranger walked by and noticed
the rust-corroded pipe. Parts of it were different
shades, ranging from siena to dark brown,
the original porous iron showing through in spots.
Just below the pipe was a powdery substance
that had flaked off and gathered on a shabby,
beige blanket. It speckled and smeared
the matted, flannel cloth.
The man thought he could do something
with the pipe, polish it and twist it.
It could be the base for a lamp. He would
wire it and dress it up with a shade in a
contrasting color. He climbed the steps to
the porch and pulled the pipe out of the pile.
This action woke a large Irish setter
sleeping under the dirty blanket.
The dog snarled and growled, ready to attack the intruder.
He shook out his shiny coat of long, rust-colored hair
and barked angrily. The young man wasn't afraid.
He knew dogs and loved them. He smiled warmly, and
spoke soothingly to the setter.
The disturbance brought a disheveled woman, in a
food-stained dress, out of the house, her hair in disarray.
The youth put her at about the age of his mother.
"Rusty, what are you fussing about?" she asked the dog.
She was startled to see the young man petting her dog.
He had put the rust-encrusted pipe down on the floor boards
and made a friend of Rusty.
"Afternoon, m'am, I saw this here pipe and
was wondering if I could have it."
"What do you want a broken pipe for?" She frowned at him.
"You can take it all, she said. "Ain't nothin' but junk."
"The pipe will do," he told her with a charming grin.
A week later the stranger returned. When she opened her door,
she was surprised to see him holding a beautiful, free-form lamp,
the base multi-toned, gleaming rust and silvery iron, topped
by a charcoal gray, pleated lampshade. "This is for you, m'am,"
the young stranger said.
Upon hearing his voice, Rusty crawled out from under his
favorite blanket and came to sit at the man's side,
smiling up at him.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
GATHERING
—Linda Klein
Gather and sift.
Be careful what you choose.
Time is a gift
to treasure and to use.
Years flow like sand
winnowed through a sieve,
that for which you stand,
will decide how you live.
Don't be afraid.
Stand up. Take a chance.
Choices must be made.
With what is left you advance.
Passing time will tell
if you have gathered well.
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for her fine, angelic poetry today!
Rusty
—Public Domain Photo
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
