truth

{÷} = $

Sighs of our tiempo.

my sisters, Ginny and Laura,

though a continent apart

in Cabo and Veracruz

together, recline on Sol’s  heated stones

pacified by Del Mar in Mexico.

while flurries pad Rocky.

mountain valley walls with feet of snow  .

aquifers diffusing.

through obstacles/ and (barriers).

to inundate faltering seas.

in time,

erasing every palisade and rampart.

oceans sing a  global song

to every winter.

escapee.

I’m yours.  $ave me.  $ave me.

save yourselves.   <                         >

 

 

 

Second Day Chili

Potent comfort steams off thick blue bowls of

Yesterday’s chili

Seems that which is mulled, mused

Holds  solace flavored seasoning

Like poems that sit overnight on laptops

 

Into profound silence of approaching chill

Edging mostly eastward

Swarms of  Canadian and Snow Geese

Gyre as one

Undoubtedly distinct voices

Now that hushed Lawn mowers and leaf blowers

Are a muted majority

Reserved for emerging spring.

 

Hands cupped around the blends of Second Day Chili

We eschew cable tv

We devour  nostalgia from

Name that Tune

Boggle, WordTwist, CatchPhrase

Cackling brashly over the shadows

as our old brains try to connect

Nuggets of  timeworn Golden Oldies.

 

But mostly it about us.

Finding ties in times of disparate reasoning

Fueled by spices

Of second Day Chili

chil-love

Adventures of Pinocchio

The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.”
― J.K. RowlingHarry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

I am a big fan of embellishing alternate truths

Shillyshallying between exaggeration and de-emphasizing

Trivialities like measurements of my weight or hips

The amount of sleep I got last night

How much water I (actually) drink

Or maybe, wind chills in depth of midwinter.

 

‘Course actual widths and breadths

Can’t be changed by repetition or recitation

And I can hear my mother on the phone

Empathizing in her soft, low sweet drawl

even though she doesn’t really believe me.

Some surveys say we tell two lies every day but

This strikes me as surprisingly low.

I have the feeling that people

Were insincere about the extent of lies

 

Accuracy & honesty wane while i stumble closer

To the approximate vicinity of Truth

It is much preferable to lean comfortably against hyperbole.

 

It’s quieter now that I have squelched (the Wicked) Jiminy Cricket

And the silence

Won’t bother me til early mourn.

Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket by artist Kaws

 

Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket by artist Kaws

 

 

 

tête-à-tête

I wondered over Christmas Chestnuts about my New Year’s Resolution of complete and total honesty to myself, others and whilst on the internet. The hazard of operating poetry without a permit basically makes me a liar by occupation.

So I says to Satchel, who seems to have a cheeky wisdom in these witchy matters, “How can we bring such truth in every breath, every word we chatter. What action decelerates the reckless tide of words?”

Sharp as a thistle, he moistened his lips, “What if,” he brilliantly articulated, “we are so conscientious of every utterance, that we opt to distinctly enunciate the silent T in those thorny epistles?”

“Even if this word has the silent T?” I protesteth. “Hast thou attempted these acts, for a year?”

He didn’t drop a stitch. “Often.” Says he, subtly, “Fasten your Seatbelt.

Listen. Watch.
I hasten o’er trestle to yon chalet and castle.
I soften my sentiment as I bustle about gourmet victuals.
Mustn’t nestle, Valet, Hustle! It’s your  own Mortgage!”

I began to twitch, “Satchel! Settle!” The static on the mobile line sputtered. “How wouldst one, then, pronounce Tsunami or ditch?”

I didn’t catch his retort o’er the whistle of the T kettle in the kitchen.
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author's note. This is nearly my 100th post. And I thank all of you