Hereditary

She thought it would be the eldest grandchild inheriting her magic. That bright, beautiful girl of quick mind. But no, that one is consumed by dance, already giving her time, her passion, her life to her art. And shining from her stages, both gymnast and sylph, lifting eyes and hearts. 

the moment

caught on camera –

a white star

sails through the sky

impossibly stilled

Nor is it the middle child, the quicksilver boy. Though he loves to search through the earth (or her treasure-trove cupboards!) for sparkling stones; though he already tends plants in his own garden. Life is complex for him: he’s still finding his way. To be a man – is that to excel at sport (he does)? Is it to joke or be harsh when he wants to cry? Where will he find a different model? Does he even suspect there may be one? He is not ready to explore magic, and may never be.

triumph –

from the sidelines 

the father

once a winner too

cheers from his wheelchair

No, it turns out to be the youngest. We should have known from the start. When she came in, it was hard for her to fully arrive – still so connected to the world beyond, which we see (because we can’t see) as death and darkness. Finally she settled, after surgery. She has always been gentle; sometimes afraid of things we deem ordinary – but full of light, of love, of wonder. She did not have an ordinary capacity to hold things; quickly learned her own way; then surgery again to make her appear more normal, more human, more like all the rest. She adapted well (she’s quick and willing) and kept her fae quality too. In conversations with her grandmother, she reveals that she sees things beyond the veil, even though she is now anchored safely here. They are sweet and interesting things, which will not harm but enhance her. 

the grandmother

holds this one close  

yet loose 

enough to let her grow 

and be well nourished

Note: In case you wonder, this grandmother is not me.

Pandemic Lockdown

 

On earth we’re briefly gorgeous,

before declining into beautiful ruins.

After the unbearable lightness 

of being blithely unaware

that something wicked this way comes,

we must evade the forest of hands and teeth

choosing instead what feels like one hundred 

years of solitude. No love in the time of cholera!

For Friday Writings #238 at Poets and Storytellers United, Magaly invites us to include in our writing an intriguing book title. She gives us these examples:

1.        Beautiful Ruins

2.       The Forest of Hands and Teeth

3.        On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

4.       The Unbearable Lightness of Being

5.       Love in the Time of Cholera

6.       Something Wicked This Way Comes

7.       One Hundred Years of Solitude

I decided to be a smart-arse and use them all, but the only subject which seemed at all plausible for such a combination turned out to be the one I've used as my title.

This Modern Life

My energy provider does not 

use AI to speak to me.

I love their customer care! 

Patience. Efficiency. 

A polite human

who understands my elderly

confusions on details.

Also, the quality of music 

playing while I wait 

in the ubiquitous phone queue

is excellent.

A quadrille in response to Sanaa's Q. 252 at dVerse: exactly 44 words excluding title, and using  the obligatory word 'care.'   I came off the phone from the experience described above, to see this dVerse prompt in my email, so the above pretty much leapt into being. Apologies if you were expecting deep and serious poetry! (But, believe me, this matter IS serious.)