Should I get lost, point me in the direction of a poem.
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The Question Begging an Answer

October 30th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Classic Cars | Romance - (Comments Off on The Question Begging an Answer)

The words seemed to pop out of their own accord,

a surprise even to me, the one who asked them.

So much so that I instantly regretted the question,

afraid this time for sure I had over-stepped the

boundary of what is yours is ours.

Yet, I saw a smile curve the corner of your lips.

Could it be that you were actually pleased I had

slipped so easily into your classic car passion,

that I was so taken with your 1948 Dodge that I

would ask you to leave it to me in your will?

It wasn’t that it was especially unique, just one

of many classic cars, but something about it

struck a chord in my heart. Made me think of

bobby socks, poodle skirts, pony tails and young

love, of kisses under myriad stars.

More than anything it had style, from its hood to

its white wall tires.  It was a dingy blue-gray

hunk-a-hunk of love that seemingly begged to

be touched.  And I wanted to touch it, curve to

curve, let the aromatic leather titillate my senses.

I could envision us riding through the country-

side, my hair tied up by a silk scarf which would

be blowing ever so glamorously in the wind.

You would have on your black cowboy hat,

looking so chic, so debonair.

On hot summer nights we could lay our bodies

against its cool surface to gaze at the night sky.

Or cruise leisurely through the night, just to listen

to its hissing carbs, the crackling spark plug wires,

the beating of it’s metal heart.

Collectible Things

October 30th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Growing old | Reflections | Sadness - (Comments Off on Collectible Things)

The Hilltop Home for Men collects old men,

like my freckle face grandson collects marbles

in a burlap sack, butterflies in a jar.

There they congregate in tiny rooms waiting

as patiently as hamsters for their turn to

come around at the wheel.

Their days are spent gazing longingly out of

picture windows, staring at a world whizzing by,

one that continues to revolve without them.

On a sunny day you might find them settling

old bones at weathered picnic tables where

they serve up past lovers or stories of war,

reiterating to each other how it was back then.

Rehashing all the could haves and should haves

and that devil of all clichés, If only I could live

my life over again

Night begins the death watch and sleep eludes

them as they smoke the day’s last cigarette,

groan and strain for compatibility with sunken beds.

Hours are spent staring at walls, bare but for a big

numbered clock, which beats to the tune of their

failing hearts, their rattling worn and rusty pipes,

as partners in time they wait for that final tick-tock.

Dismal Solution

October 30th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Death | Granddaughter | Kittens | Reflections | Sadness - (Comments Off on Dismal Solution)

In the pet store

my granddaughter is squealing,

reaching her tiny hands,

delicately touching soft fur.

Pairs of blue eyes stare

crystalline clear,

brimming with intelligence,

weighing her every move.

My granddaughter is ooh-ing

and aah-ing, unaware…

of Grandma’s eyes

brimming with tears.

As memories awake

of burlap bags

of flickering motion,

gurgling sounds beneath

piles of wet stones.

Of my  sisters and I wading in

the creek in front of our house,

stumbling onto their watery graves.

My grandfather’s solution

to every new litter of kittens.

In the Photo

October 30th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Death | Family | Growing old | Reflections | Sadness - (Comments Off on In the Photo)

In the photo my mother is beautiful.

Though it is in black and white,

I picture her cheeks to be rosy as pink Chablis.

Her hair cascades thick and wavy

to meet the soft slant of her shoulders,

covered demurely in a dark dress

I imagine, a shade of red.

She is smiling coyly for the camera,

as if she is the keeper of some secret,

about to spring a surprise.

The couch she sits on is smattered with

clusters of tiny white blossoms.

Behind her, the wallpaper is enmeshed

in huge leaves pointing skyward;

between each two leaves is a single flower.

The floor’s linoleum is a characteristic nineteen fifties pattern

of multicolored and sized diagonal stripes.

In the photo my mother is a constant,

in surroundings I can only describe as busy,

and so she has been for most of her life.

The photo was taken after mine and my older sister’s birth,

before those of our siblings.

It was long before school days, dating, marriages,

children, divorces, grandchildren,

and all forms of crises imagined or real

which have transformed her once vibrant brown hair to gray,

strand by strand.

Long before wrinkles claimed her face,

Arthritis wreaked havoc on her joints,

Osteoporosis settled in her bones.

In the photo my mother is beautiful.

She is poor but happy,

innocent and trusting,

hinging on a promise,

glimmering with love.

My Dentist

October 29th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Fantasy | Imagination - (1 Comments)

My dentist knows my mouth intimately.

And, like any man who recognizes a lover

across a crowded room, merely by her stance

or the way she tosses her hair, my dentist

recognizes me by the composite fillings,

the caps on my teeth.

Reclined under the veil of Novocain,

I listen to his and a dental assistant’s

chatter as he wields his drill, meticulous and

finely tuned, with gloved hands explores

every nook and cranny of my gaped mouth.

Reclined there I wonder if it’s true what they say,

that a dentist’s first impression is based on your

smile, the degree of whiteness, how big the gap

is between your teeth.

At the end of his day does he take our teeth home

with him, each extraction and filling a story to be

tossed over salad as he dines with his family,

an example to his children as the reason as to why

they should always brush their teeth?

Does he dream our teeth at night?

The decayed ones surfacing in nightmares to

mock him, in which he runs aimlessly through

forests, fog, or the dead of night, searching in vain

for a dental tool that will extinguish them?

While the healthy teeth shimmer in pleasant dreams,

lined up in rows like sailors standing at attention in

their dress whites, each saluting as he pauses before

them, the words excellent, brilliant, beautiful,

rolling off his tongue.