Photo by John Richards

I read
Obituaries.
Why?
They tell me the mysteries of lives,
Ways others found to cope with the unfathomable
Travails of being.
My angst is nothing when set against theirs,
It pales in comparison
As do my triumphs.

Others build bridges
Scale mountains
Write operas
Build empires
Open  vistas
Find cures
Right wrongs
Bred dogs
Bake cakes
Explore the skies
Reach for the stars
On and on and on.

And I,

Sip my tepid tea,

And,

I,

I read
Obituaries.

Photo by John Richards

Is a red, terrycloth wash rag
Clasped tightly in my hand as I sleep.
The Spirit, within, grants me peace
Till sleep comes on, if and when it can.

I lost it once, so substituted a blue one
For the night.
It wasn’t the same.
Dreams were hurting my brain
As if the forces of nature were.
Out of joint.

My God expects little,
Offers less.
If I’m true to It,
I will be secure.

Repeating a litany of good wishes for others,
In hopes that neglecting my own desires
Will prove selfless generosity, turning over into
Blessings, earned by not asking,
I conjure up childhood prayers, “Now I Lay Me(s)”
In the voice of one who’s three.

But that’s not all.

God comes along with a side-kick.
“Navy Blue,” the cowboy bandana
Kept on my pillow, at the ready for an allergic sneeze.
Not a spirit, we carefully plot
Our territory,
Guarding against contact too close for comfort,
Necessary, though unwanted, he spends the night
As well.

So, the three of us, unlikely bedfellows,
Meet the dark,
Hear the distant coyote calls,
Keep the goblins away,
Clutching the last rays of day,
Till diaphanous Slumber
Can make her way to our bed.

Photo by John Richards

An Orchid
Past its prime
Is not a sad flower.
It is wane, emptied of color
And without structural strength,
Yet something there, a juicy vagueness
Catches your eye,
Secures it to be watched.

An entire day may pass
And you will barely change your stance.
Mealtimes move on through
Yet you are there
Transfixed by the luminance.
Thinner and thinner it continues to be,
As water replaces fiber.
Still sustaining,
Living on, because it must,
Because you will.

Photo by John Richards

Oh, the glories of Victoriana !
What are we to believe, that they were all hearts and nosegays
Scattered, sprinkling on their history’s hour.
Or pikes and pickets in remembrance of the need to slaughter.
We don’t, can’t know them now.
All we can see is their residue, iron fencing, dried blossoms,
Hide-bound morals that secreted sin behind each bush.
Up close the flatness of each face, the paleness of each smile
Let’s us know, it’s not the time or place to live.
Chose  instead any era, any combination of times and dates
As preferred.
Barring dystopia, I’ll take that first.