Give me back my rags

give me back my rags
the holes, the cold which whistles past my ears.
I am free.
I'll give you back my new Audi,
the cashmere sweater and expensive gloves,
the extravagant parties and friends who
are not, who disappeared
when I so desperately needed them.
I'll find old friends on the road
dressed in rags and carrying their possessions
in a small bag
our faces are old
our hands are rough and broken
we may die in the street with nothing,
in rags
rags that we freely chose.

 a poem from a prompt "give me back my rags" by Vasko Popa
I don't necessarily believe that poverty is freedom, but I do think that our materialistic culture breeds loneliness and despair.

Garden Cleanup

I'm piling leaves into huge brown Kraft bags for

the City Compost program,

I'm sweating in the heat, my hands buried in long

leather gardening gloves up to my elbows to protect

against abundant thorns.

it's coming along, I see blossoms and green shoots

underneath and am reminded of the miracle of

new life, returning growth, rejuvenation.

She, on the other hand, has closed her eyes against

the sun, positively baking, every black

inch of her body absorbing the heat,

she's barely awake,

but insists that she's supervising.

tug of war

I resisted.
He pulled.
I reminded him of how much I had done.
He reminded me that the original request
was in November.
it was March, now.
I reminded him I'm busy now.
He reminded me that they need the answer now,
and they asked me in November.
I caved, he won.
I gave him the answer today but
I won't accept lunch invitations
from him this week.

daffodils at dusk

daffodils at dusk

on the back porch

we're wearing jackets

the cold is moving in

but I won't go inside,

the steam from the beef stew

fills my nostrils, the wine is

sweet on my tongue and 

you are here with me.

grandpa Stephen

a grandpa in training 

regardless of no experience with

parenting

I'd call it cheating.

dogs don't count, except

Buddy may be an exception,

I'll grant him that.

baby Gus likes the ride up high,

the funny faces and weird noises

I'm sure I'll be embarrassed at 

the other lessons he teaches,

it's boy stuff.

we girls just don't understand.

I want that one

I want that one all the way to right

half way down

the one with the crunchy look,

they are what they appear to be unlike

the ones which are beautiful on the outside

and gross inside,

reminds me of Republican presidential candidates, 

slick and polished on the outside, filled with 

hatred on the inside

Perhaps we should eat them whole,

methodically eliminating their dogma

by the steady movement of the jaw,

the digestive powers of the saliva.

when I am 66..

please let me be as beautiful as her
when I am 66, with her blonde curls,
sculpted cheekbones and sunny smile.
she's my friend who never ages
I'm not sure how she does it without
a Botox shot, a facelift, liposuction
or any other cosmetic procedure,
she laughs me off, but I'm serious
I want to be just like her.
My friend, Sher.