You Are Not Alone
Originally published in The Gates (1976)
O for God’s sake
they are connected
They look at each other
across the glittering sea
some keep a low profile
Some are cliffs
The bathers think
islands are separate like them
© Muriel Rukeyser
Let’s stay together.
Clouds with my Coffee
Yesterday was a washout. A bad day for a wedding or concert-goers or sun chasers.
Today is our gift for that Super Soaker Saturday. I know it’s bad for me but sunshine is an aphrodisiac. I can do anything but I want to sit here and watch for bunnies and birds and the occasional obnoxious bee.
I have my coffee, my iPad, my audio speaker, my music. Good to go.
Knock knock knockin’ on heaven’s door.
Do You Hear Me Now?
Tying up loose ends, fragments of thoughts and observations.
The neighbors are noisy today.
Saws splitting wood, grinding trucks spinning their wheels, sirens on the street. Someone is in trouble.
The neighbor’s dog, mad barking, losing his temper at strangers on his turf and I don’t blame him. Teach me to let loose, pal.
Birds are screeching. Standing their ground. This is my tree. This is my land.
I sought silence
here where the wind chimes bang out a jazz beat as if in a sacred sanctuary and the sun is burning through my tee shirt and that rooster lets loose his fierce vocal chords in timely precision. I count the pause in between its calls. Equal in length, every time. Perfect rhythm, chopping into the cacophony, like an orchestra and the players, taking turns, watching the maestro waving his arms in rapture of nature’s unruly music.
The banging of nails and buzzing of bees fade into the air. It seems the show is over. I gather my book and coffee and shoes and half-eaten sandwich, noting I forgot to zip my shorts and no wonder they were loose. Disappointed my body was not the wonderland I hoped it was. I head out to the lobby and buy tickets for the next performance, unsure if I will ever hear the same concert again.
Happy, Happy, Joy Joy
Who doesn’t love a rerun? Posted to Facebook a year ago. Did I write this? Yes. Do I remember this? Not at all. Hold fast to dreams. And memories. And words that boomerang back to you from cyberspace. Welcome home, Astronaut Ross. 👋
–Pamela Ross, musing nonsensically about what body parts work best in this machine