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Trifling

Each sperm will be a child, the result is stifling
my sympathy could be termed as trifling.
Porn outlawed, hands will be tied.
“But we didn’t think of this!” the people cry.
AI twisted to measure our lust
claiming to protect the weakest of us.
“But a sperm is only half!” It doesn’t matter,
the AI in charge is mad as a hatter.
If two cells together is deemed a child
than why not one? And the AI runs wild.

_______________________

I took the photograph yesterday. A sign of spring in the Pacific Northwest is that the moss turns green. And grows. And grows.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: trifling.

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Soft my heart

Soft my heart forgives and lets go,
lets go of reconciling. We won’t. I won’t.
I have waited long enough. I forgive all
and I am done waiting. I let it all go and
walk forward into a different life.
The Sufis lead me: the teacher must judge when
the student is ready. I am not a teacher.
I am always a student. I want to learn
always and change. I let go. Farewell, my dears,
you still have my love but you do not have me.
I no longer care, I don’t long for your love,
I let you live your stuffed and twisted lives
in peace, without me importuning you,
to listen to think to grow with me
and you don’t want to so I am free.

____________________________

Written February 17, 2024. As with most of my poems, I don’t know how it will end until I write it. Poem as prayer. The ending surprised me, too.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: reconcile.

I don’t know who took the photograph. From left to right, my sister, cousin, me, cousin, taken at Lake Matinenda in Ontario, Canada.

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Traffic in Port Townsend

The photograph is taken by Rowan DeLuna and used with her permission. Thank you Rowan!

My son’s response: Very responsible to use the crosswalks.

Our local deer use the crosswalks often. I have seen does teaching fawns at corners. So are the deer teaching the otters too?

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Flooded

Trigger warning: trauma and feelings.

I cry because
the laundry overflowed
the sewer blocked again
we might have to pull up the floor
and lay it down a third time
I hate the laundromat
water runs across the floor
as fast as the tsunami
crossing the fields
crushing the houses
catching the trucks
in Japan

I cry because
I have to ask for help again
Help comes
but the memories of asking
when it didn’t
help didn’t come
and I was abandoned or humiliated
rise up and overwhelm me
I am flooded
I am helpless
someone help those people
The shaking earth is bad enough
But the ocean rolling inland
Over all
Breaking all
Beams to toothpicks
Those are the memories that rise up
And flood me
I think of the soldiers
and victims of wars and disasters
and PTSD
tsunami
of memory

__________________________________

Written before 5/2011. I have posted before, but couldn’t find it on a search. Posted today at a friend’s request.

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Heaven and hell

Hell is other people. Heaven too.
How much do you adjust for this person?
The one who is only available when I am damaged
a foul weather friend, unexpected,
busy with all the damaged around,
never time to play. This one hides much
and slips into denial like a familiar cloak.
I am sad. That one talks about others, ah, gossip
I hate it. This one has a blind spot I could
drive a truck through. I wonder why? I am curious.
I read that women are still expected to be responsible
for the house. They are praised or blamed if the home
appears perfect or a mess. I am clearing my main floor
to resemble this idea of what a house should look like
but reading that I wonder. Is it worth it? My decor
is packrat cat lady, though only two cats. No self respecting
burgler would come in as they would trip and fall,
over cats or stuff. Stuff on the stairs: I don’t care
and know that at 65 I will be counseled in my “free”
medicare wellness visit, that I’ve paid for through
all my working years, to make sure my house is uncluttered
reducing fall risk. Hell is other people and heaven too.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: hell.