So Here We Are Again

So here we are again, two days away 

from that month, that anniversary,

your unforgotten death. 

I should have known.

But I have other reasons, this year, 

for thinking of you so constantly.

Forty and more years later

and I’ve written the story. It’s a book.

It’s about to be published.

I’m immersed in all the preparations.

Yet today I found myself lingering

on that chapter, about getting the news

and then some others, about love. 

Well, it’s all about love, really. Always was.

Fucking fated, I tell you!

That we met. And all the rest.

(Don’t you tell me

I won’t love you always!)

In Last Night's Dream

In last night’s dream I could talk under water.

oh, that makes sense (I suddenly realise now) –

the one I was talking to was Bill, who spent

half his life underwater: 

                        

                                         Bill the diver, to whom 

I was married for 26 years. We were good mates 

most of the time, and I loved his tales of the sights 

and adventures below the surface. He would 

have loved to take me diving too, but my 

water phobia…. 

                          

                             My other two husbands

(before and after Bill) loved ballroom dancing –

one was a champion, with cups and medals –

and I couldn’t dance at all, which must have been

a disappointment…. 

                                  Bill and I were equally 

hopeless at dancing and singing, so those things

we happily did together. Along with boating, and

travels around the country. Oh and of course, having 

children, loving them, delighting in them. 

                                                                    I wonder 

why we were chatting in my dream last night. Does 

underwater, below the surface, signify deep in 

the unconscious? Does he visit me often at some 

other level of reality, only I don’t usually recall? 

I know I was the love of his life, so it seems a bit 

sad that he was only one of mine. But we both 

always wanted more….

                                         I think, of course, that at 83 

I must be nearing my death. Maybe some part of my 

soul has decided to go out with a cleaner slate, tidying 

up loose ends, making sure of repairing any old hurts 

with any old husbands? We were always good mates

(except for the break-up, but we moved past that) and 

much in accord on many things….

Sharing this with Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #83: The Finishing Touch, as it seems I might be putting the finishing touches to this relationship, or the memories of it, or my own coming to terms with it all.

Confronting the Legend

I was surprised to meet the alchemist –

a pleasant woman, quite matter-of-fact.

I had not thought they actually exist.

But there she was, discovered in the act:

apparatus huge, fine measures exact.

A mutual friend arranged this merry meet,

and told me that they’d trained together. Sweet!

So she’s one too! It’s not some myth of old.

(They distill herbal remedies, to treat

the ailing; blithely unconcerned with gold.)

For Friday Writings #82 at Poets and Storytellers United, Magaly invites us to include the complete title of a favourite book in a piece of our own writing. Like many others, I love the sweet, wise fable, The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. Once I'd thought of that, no surprise that this personal memory popped up.  

Buck(et)ing the Trend

I am deeply opposed

to the whole idea of bucket lists –

also goal-setting and all other

kinds of rah-rah geeing-up.

Instead (and in protest)

I have devised

an empty-the-bucket list:

things I can cross off

as no longer ever

having to do.

The older I get, the more

I can dismiss. The ageing body

means no-one, not even

my somewhat-indoctrinated self

(it’s hard to altogether escape

prevailing social opinion)

has any hope of persuading me 

into stuff I really cringe from.

E.g. I never never never, now,

need to sky-dive, bungee-jump,

or plank. I needn’t even

try to climb mountains.

I am not obliged to

master Spanish,

let alone Japanese.

I need not even begin them.

I have travelled 

and I loved it, but now

I may enjoy the view 

from my armchair.

(The trouble with travel

is not the places, but

getting through the airports. Ugh!

Now I can eschew them –

and also congratulate myself

on not-flying being kinder 

for our beloved planet.)

I don’t have to dress for success,

nor to please any male eye 

any corporate code, any 

fashion rules for older women.

I can look like a hippy if I want to,

or a slob, or just someone

over eighty with an imperfect body

and a love of colour and comfort.

I don’t have to read any book

because it’s worthy – only

if it’s fun and gorgeous and I want to.

Nor see any movie ditto.

I am excused from engaging 

with Serious Ideas,

or having my emotions harrowed

in the interests of confronting

The World As It Is. Believe me, 

I’ve done enough confronting.

I don’t have to rub my nose 

in that stuff any more, 

to know how bad it smells.

It’s far too late to become

a Perfect Mother,

a Great Beauty,

a Good Cook – or even 

a half-way decent gardener.

(Two of those things I never ever

really wanted to, so there! 

I do like eating good food

and seeing beautiful gardens;

I just don’t want to be the one

to have to create these delights.)

It’s lovely to sit back, relax,

and contemplate all the things

I never have to do, 

tossing them blithely

out of that damn bucket.

Written for Friday Writings #80 at Poets and Storytellers United, where we are invited to write about something on our bucket list. Our word limit is 369 (excluding title). I was gratified to find that when I'd finished this outpouring with very little tweaking, it came to exactly 369 words!

An Unfinished Project

I look at 

my face, unadorned

in the mirror.

I decide it’s

a good face, 

an uncompromising face.

All those wrinkles –

years forming – show

I’ve been expressive.

The hooded eyes,

small and dim,

are deeply knowing.

That set mouth

is not grimacing.

No, it’s soft

when you look;

but in repose

is still, closed.

This face is

waiting to be

aroused, interested, moved.

It’s not yet

at the end

of its journey.

It may still

develop new marks

of its passage,

of its involvement

in the life

unfolding around it

and the life –

ever new, unknown –

developing behind it.

Written for Friday Writings #79 at Poets and Storytellers United.