A familiar buzz creates the strange backdrop of my kitchen, and my world. The sound of distress is repeated often in my head, but now it lives. I cannot locate the source. It continues to fill the cool air of an October morning. Where is he? I heard him in pain, buzzing so loudly that I must listen. He wants my attention as he cries for help.
I wait. I must be dreaming, my head repeats. He is gone. He no longer lives on this Earth. But then again, I want to think otherwise. I want to believe the signs that he flew my way six years past. The flutter of his wings upon my cheek. His flight was soft and gentle, aiming for me, for my face. Certain it was he, I broke into laughter. No disrespect, my love, but your wings tickled my nose. Made me smile. I knew it was you, free from pain.
So why now? Why this distress call to me? I look in every room as the sound grows in voice. That buzz remains. I cannot find you. Searching every fold of the house in which I call my home, but not really home since you are not here. Or are you? They tell me I am mad. La Femme Folle. But ’tis only folly, I know. I believe you, mon cher ami. Mon amant, mon amour. I believe you.
And there you are. Upside down, with your tiny wiggling legs. There you are wedged between the bends of a blue kitchen towel. You buzz with vigor, waiting to be freed. Who said a fly should be let free? You chose to be there, mon ami. You wanted to fly, so I let you free. Fly away now, safe to the outside air. Come alive. Don’t die. Keep flying. I love you.
Scrubbing the years away
With barkeeper’s helper,
Shine like new
Glossy enough to show
On a shelf at
Close to home,
Yet far from sight,
My pots and pans
Sleep in a museum as
Revereware on parade.
Should I be sleeping there, too?
First placed in a dresser drawer
Migrated to a shoebox
Burgeoned to a steamer trunk
Hidden away in a space in the wall
Letters kept safe over 50 years
Uncovered in a renovation
Home owners open them one by one
The story of two lovers unfolding on paper
Over time, through wars, marriage
And children born and died, the letters
Filled with life and hidden passion
Secrets that only lovers share
Those who discover the musings
Seek to find the children, now grown,
With no inkling of correspondence
Between mother and father, letters
Revealing struggles, patience, deep love
And devotion one to the other
Email is not wrapped in purple ribbon
Nor kept in a dresser drawer, perhaps
An iCloud drawer to be savored later
Or uncovered like Ashley Madison clients,
Not quite the same as thin Air Mail paper
With the familiar red, white and blue logo
I am coming out of the closet, little by little, as time permits. It isn’t easy to admit to yourself. I started small. A word here, a rhyme there. It felt so comfortable and reassuring. Then one day, I started a blog. But nothing was posted. It was a first step. An inch toward reaching a lifetime goal. A year later, still nothing there. I had to renew the blog subscription or lose it. So I started to post my poems for all the world to see. I was sure that no one would read them. They were there for me more than anything else, a storage place where they would not get lost in the clouds. I didn’t promote the blog, nor even tell friends it was there.
Poet. I pronounce the moniker over and over in my head. You are a poet, I tell myself. Being just a plain writer seems easier, not quite so bold. Poets are different, after all. They are funky, wear multi-colored hats, strange perfume and turquoise eyeliner. They look like cowboys or those girls in high school who only wore black. They drink Turkish coffee while writing at cafes … or mumbling to themselves. Poets gather in groups to listen to each other read. They cringe at some lines, applaud others. They always make a knowing “hmmm” sound when the reader finishes as though a universal understanding of the deep meaning just occurred. Poets spend hours thinking and writing about the good, bad and ugly of life. Their life. Poetry is, after all, a memoir in rhyme. Poets are in pain. I will fit right in.