Archive for April, 2013

cute-baby-25The birthday balloon is tethered to the top of a table lamp.
No longer taut, it sways seductively,
its “Make A Wish” message calling to me
as the helium hisses a slow escape.

There is much to wish for as one grows older
but my one wish is simple.
Let me live long enough to see our sons
with families of their own.

Their happiness would fill my heart to overflowing.
And oh, to have a granddaughter,
so that I can finally experience some
of what I so sorely missed with my own baby girl.

Such joy. My birthday wish.


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In support we meet, each a conglomeration of everchanging aches
and complaints,
each a walking frustration of foggy thoughts
and dead-end detours.

She says the secret is to laugh,
that our brains can be tricked
into compliance by smiles and
belly-laughs of imaginary amusement.

She speaks of blocked chakras and tree of life imbalances,
of inherited cellular memories and soul repair,
of angels that answer her simple prayers at first thought.
She says she was once like us
but now is cured.

She slides a silver pendulum from around her neck.
First still, it soon sways side to side,
telling her our secrets,
the “yays” or “nays” to her questions.

“You are now unblocked,” she says.
“You are now in balance.”
“Your inherited cellular memories are gone.”
“Your souls are healed.”

I scan the hopeful faces around me,
their evident willingness to accept that which has been said,
and I wonder if I’m the only one
who doesn’t believe.

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like,quotes,thought,txt,life,moment-5883bba7d4638f2ed6a2fdbf964f22b0_hA name forgotten, an appointment missed,
a recipe that must be read and reread.
It sometimes frightens, that feeling that something is lacking,
that my mind will never function
as it did in younger years.

“Play sudoku,” someone suggests.
“Use your brain more,” another adds.
“Don’t type. Use a pen. Read.”
There is no
end to their cures.

But a brain is like a sponge, I tell myself, and mine is saturated
with images of a man on a bike laden with a hundred orphaned hubcaps,
and another who cheerfully pulls a tall wagon behind him, a free ride
for a grown woman, her legs stretched out, her gap-toothed smile pure glee.

Sounds vie for space here.
The rich tones of church bells at noon, the rush of sirens in the distance,
the rattle of carts and wagon wheels as the more resourceful, the more desperate,
scour the curbs for returnable bottles before garbage day,
the quiet voices from neighbouring verandahs on summer nights.

If my brain can only hold so much,
let it be this,
And let the random lists and names of unimportant celebrities
seep away.

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