consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Tag: Summer

Coke cans and Swiss cake rolls

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When I was six I decided to run.
So I made a plan  for a decent getaway.
Saint Peter’s uniform was really more of a jumper.
A plaid v stemming from my waist and covering my shoulders.
I had not yet mastered buttons,so no undershirt was applied.
I could not reach the sock drawer, and did not yet
know how to tie more than one criss-cross
So shoes were moot too, I was sure.
I retrieved a hefty bag from under the sink,
and kissed each stuffed animal as I plunged them into the plastic.
I went to the soda drawer, figuring I would need at least a six pack
I had miles to go after all, and a new life to start.
It was heavy, and I knew it. I packed light after that–
only pringles and some swiss cake rolls.

It was a sad thought, leaving everyhting I’d ever known,
But we are all writing our own book, and I knew
I couldn’t take this for much longer.
Who could?

I said goodbye to my Mother’s door. I would miss her.
I could hear him snoring off the Scotch, still.
I thought of Christmas coming, and maybe I would miss presents.
I welled up at this, but knew I had to follow through.

Into the night I went. No shoes, no shirt, and a Catholic School jumper.
My hefty bag of supplies to carry me into the new world.
I stepped out into the hot Ybor night, brave.
The humidity licked my face, reminding me of the coming sunrise.

It must have been a couple of hours before Mother found me sleeping
a street over, in a neighbor’s convertible. I had stopped to
momentarily rest, seeing the plush back seat.
My bag ripped when I had to start dragging it, only a few houses away from my own
and gave my mom the trail of stuffed animals, coke cans, and swiss cake rolls
that led her to my oasis.

I didn’t know how many more hefty bags I would fill by 44.
I didn’t know how welcoming a plush oasis felt.
words wash welts and whelping clean away.
And Summer makes it all new again in Memphis.

 

Today there was Tea

Today there was tea.
Some lavender, a few magnolia blooms, a siren and a song of sorrow.
It steeped with fever, waiting for the moment
It slipped into the cup, subtly steaming
with fog of uncertainty, ultramarine
It blinded her as she sipped,
accompanied by the Memphis Sun.

This day curled, doleful in her dressed lap
Purred with necessity, yawned with thirst
Blinked in the same Sunbeam,
Forgetting the smell of Maine Solstice
the taste of  Midsummer madness in the barn.

She drank it down, only wincing a bit
at the scattershot sensation happening inside
her petite mouth.
Brown, red, and smooth,
The dregs spelled
SYMPHONY.
and
SERVICE.

Startled, she bounced slightly, purging her lap of her familiar.
She was left with only the Sunbeam,
this Delphic message,
and the aftertaste of sorrow, tart, like Ohio Blackberries.

Her lap, still warm with need of rain.
Cooled by the Four O’Clock Tennessee breeze.

 

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Painting by Rob Hefferan

 

How many synonyms are there for affection?

On a Saturday morning, effortless
We were 18 year-old forty somethings.
unmistakable giggles
stories of bloodsheds and watersheds
bedheads, retreads, some reds and blues and my God
the unsaid, the apparent, the ready the resonance.
The path of the empath, the love swelling scenes of midnights and
florida forlorn kids, pounding those warrior days with
what it took to keep breathing amidst the certain uncertainties that
left us breathless, those crazy albatross pains
the colic of adolescence, the way we wove
our secrets into each day
and let them set with humid sun, burning in
shades of city and wreck.

Our sides were burning with want, all of us.
All we knew was heat and water, spaceships and tree swings.
We were bred for this. This. This
shade of indigo. some desire of the unmapped, the
Chartless seduction submerged in the
sweetest trust of childhood playfellows
now with the most minute of wrinkle lines.
the new breath of honey
A lexis of kisses, lost loves,
car payments and some self-examination:
really the only true distance, you know?
I can’t explain the pull, I don’t need to.
The propulsion, palpable, makes it easy.
The conversation, easier.
The same eyes, mouth, and laugh
The history of us, the heart journey to Mercury,
Mars, Africa, Eden, Abyss of
trying to figure the fucking thing out.
the solid ground under our feet we can stand on
hearing a familiar voice, (one I adore)
without losing  balance
without trying to qualify why we find it comfortable to stand still.
why it’s enough to understand the shape of your hand
and remember it in mine while singing together
on some stage at 16 feeling our feet under us, even then.
Even then, even now, the ease is all.
The curiosity is filling the cat.
Willing travel, and a feeling of flutters.
A thought of a what-if-butterfly kiss
a hand solidly resting on the low of my back.
a slow dance in some music hall, or a walk in the rain.
or maybe, just a hunt of Memphis Town, and a friendly tour guide.
I really don’t have any idea what this urge is.
I’m not going to question. I’m not going to shove it down.

The clearest expectation for us all now is to stay alive until we don’t, and find each others’ eyes. We find the hand and hold it tight for dear life, because by God, it’s time. We laugh and eat days and nights, and sing songs loud.

All else is time, and all is all.
And it’s short, you know?
how we touch, how we hide, where we can get to, and where we are to go.
the thing is, mostly of most,
to admire someone and wish them with you
is to see the underside of the Gods.
The places they secret away for the most amorous and best mortals
The ones who will carry on the work of
loving like they did, the Gods,
The demigods. The deities, The Titans, the giants, and the poets.
With Athenian chastity,
The patience of Daphnis and Chloe, waiting for the storm, wishing to be whole
Writing us, sans plot
Charting the path with Artemis-like precision,
(Catch and release, catch and release)
We imagine the Aphrodite in us, sweet friend.
Thirty years seem to speak volumes in the silence.

Or perhaps just a day, a breath of what it feels to be home.
laying on that stage.
staring up, looking at our broken lights,
wishing we were more in control of our life, our bodies
wishing for a slower dance, another field trip
another bus ride, another chance to sing songs
in the chorus room at lunch.

Maybe we are just laying on the stage again.
Humming songs in seraphic harmony
Getting those goosebumps we did
When we knew that our sounds,
mine and yours,
made us more immortal than any God
more beautiful than a Magnolia,
bursting in wet bloom.
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Summer’s End or Chicken Shit 101

It is really so simple, she said

Light down the spine,

name and number each bone

make a fantastic inventory.

Use descriptive language when searching for skin, hair

wrap each finger carefully in curls

(the slightest tug will do for now)

Ask short questions pertaining to the weight of winks

Itemize the sighs, bottle, and preserve.

Linger in the kisses a moment too long,

paying close attention to the way the eyes look while closed- just after.

Document.

Rest on the slight curve of the hip, apply pressure with fingertips. Make the slightest mark.

Index all of the whispers, separating night from day whispers.

Backlog each moment we speak of love.

Season is fickle.

Words and wild remain un-categorized,

lovely, longing and without requite.

I will paint this, sing it. And forget.

See you each day, (And your graceful peasant eyes)

referring to the record

of our almost (surrender) affair.

Errors in judgement, or I adore you.

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One is a bedfellow, soft

One is a tempest

One is drowning

One shakes with late night chemical fever

‘How can you say to me, I am a King?’

Shakespeare asks this-

Every time each finds nirvana they weep for roads untraveled, children unborn, wives taken before time came, days un-lived.

Each time a drop of blue travels South in weathered hands

They call a name: creatress, animal, soul, basilisk.

You sing a song of Satet, as she cleaned that crazy river.

You sing a song of Leto, fading into dim mother light

You sing a song of Artemis, clinging to child face for safties unknown

There are four days to speak of in all of this.

Three are secret, and filled with spilled judgement

One is a birth and a death and a life in between. That day I will speak of-

On each day you said my name as it was the first name you ever spoke.

And on each day I closed my eyes to the Sun which I knew would set.

Hoping it never would.

On the eve of 40.

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It’s been a very long ride so far. And when I say this, I don’t mean arduous or labor-some. I mean it’s been a road I have done my best to make a pit stop on about every other exit. I have lived so, so many lives. I don’t take this for granted. I have traveled, worked, loved, made grievous errors, made incredible risky choices that did and did not work, died and come back to life on my own terms, been hurt, done the hurting, laughed out loud, cried with grief louder, been a loved and loving daughter, and had the best friends in the world.

 

The folks who are in my biological family know that this is a big deal. No one expected 40. It was a long shot. And now, I look forward to 70. I am in love with being alive. This is all new to me. I am so fortunate for second, third, and fourth chances.

I want to tell you all that in my life I have had the kindest, wildest, best hearts as my dearest friends. I have beautiful family. They are from all walks of life and regularly remind me as they are being human how far I have to go as a person. I am reminded each day what the difference between existing and living is. 

The bottom line of this blog post is:

Thank you.

Dinner party for 20….

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WARNING! MELANCHOLIC MUSINGS! or Let’s just read the funny papers

I have terribly neglectful of this blog. I think it is the general lack of mindfulness I’ve been experiencing. The Berkshires beat on like beautiful retired war heroes yawning at the sky and my snow peas reach for that sky. There is a melancholic air to all and as I am like every other human I am trying to unpack the story.

So many bad dates. So many nights without sleep. A summer that gallops apace without me at the company where I work. A summer that isn’t at all what I thought it would be at the other work. It’s been over a month since my dear friend passed and a little over a month until another one marries. I turn 40 in 27 days. Is this where most are at this juncture? I would love to know if it is.

My Mom always asked why I did things the hard way. Even without purpose. Leaving home early, choosing to wait on marriage, choosing an impossible field to work in, choosing impossible places to live, being on the road living in a tent for so long, having such a long period of being so sick, and fighting for what I believe in as opposed to watching injustice happen (even if I never live to actually see results for that fight) are the things she doesn’t understand about me and also the things she respects the most.

Sometimes, not most- but sometimes I tire of it.

And then sometimes it becomes the song I sing.

And sometimes, just sometimes on a bleak and beautiful cool Berkshire morning like this as the fan hums and the cat perches in the window and there is stillness and quiet– at these times- at this time- I just want to read the newspaper with someone and sigh in the knowledge that I have a partner in crime- and rest easy in the knowledge that this partner will not now or any time for the rest of our time need or want to go anywhere else.

Can I have both? Certainly. I think. As I get older I am underwhelmed by wooing antics and proclamations of obsessive love. With so much experience in love comes a great responsibility to be patient while the other party meanders like a Cocker Spaniel puppy through their feeling world. Recklessly banging around and pawing and overturning food bowls in the name of excitement. What I need is a great long beautiful sophisticated Great Dane. One who knows who he is. One who is completely fine with the space he takes up in the world. One who is OK with my days of Saint Bernard and my days of Chihuahua.

But I digress. Adventures continue. Love will continue. Seasons will pound on in fours and August will come and go and I will enter in to my fifth decade.

I laugh every day out loud and don’t think for a moment that I take that for granted.

I am just missing that puzzle piece. That one little one that becomes the priority.

Henry Rollins says this perfectly-

“I want a soul mate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there.”

And that pretty much sums it up.

 

Wherefore means WHY or Let me pick your flowers

Post lizard-hunting activities

One day until wheels leave ground and I am airborne

And two three dancing at the derby and

Three four spine like I will travel down old paths

And old familiar eyes

Angels and batboys both need running shoes

And twenty years later will I say your name?

The house is burning, sweet Jesus- the smoke!

Skywise it puffs up like proud bird and God will go bowling soon

I’ll point my toes toward the red

If only for a day more

A night more

One love at a time at a viper’s speed

Pouncing on heart and freeing the room that was left

Behind years ago

Where falling leaves live, and earthworms the size of

Stormtroopers, cats the size of

Two-stories, hands the size of

Me.

And I pause for dreaming

I remember running, running so fast, so far in rain

At six or seven, running in stealth, me and Roberto

Fast with tight white Florida shirts baring

Arms, hands brown

Shorts baring brown legs, dirty knees

(post lizard hunting)

And that lightning could have pounded me in the chest as he

Closed in fast

Closed in grabbing

Arms tight closed in hard and fast

On pink mouth with kiss

And the rain ran down curiosity

The rain ran down a different take on Father

The rain ran down balloons and birthday scotch

I felt tongue muscle slide across wet bottom lip

Fierce Florida destitute forlorn poor kids

Learning the way to longer days

Punching the sky with boredom and new-found

Belly clenching activities

I don’t want to give, I say. I don’t want to

Have to quiet down.

I want to yell it scream it kick it whisper it

Bigger than my life before

I want to swim before and after by MY hand.

I want to keep my words, and my womb and my wicked hands

And throw them slowly to the sea

I want to learn 5 ways to say I desire you.

I want to be silent and only watch.

I want a different take on this all.

I want to rub chocolate on the white house and

Eat from my yard

I want to eat you like a whole almond, he said.

Me and time we see,

And I never knew the shape of trees in a hurricane.

And I love has never left me so full as these years, three

And I wait for your foot on the stair.

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5 girls who play like ducks or Nickel Shakespearepalooza

So- It is rainy and cold and wet. Bring it! TODAY. LENOX FARMER’S MARKET! 1:30-2:30!

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