The garden shed
finds her in deep meditation,
the chokecherry bush has her
insanely mystified, predisposed
of wet sweet woodruff to flavor May
wine aging in Mason canning jars, her
fingers turning the pages, Old Farmer's
Almanac hidden under the feather tick day
bed, forbid it be confiscated lest someone find
her secret wrapped in vintage lace,
collecting
potter's mud
beside the creek,
inspired by a clump
of moss so soft, so
penetrable, the dark
corner of the garden shed
beckoned her at full stride,
Pussy feeds the potato bin,
the walnut bucket filled to the
brim, archer's dartboard, antique
wooden buckboard rim, her hockey
sticks hanging five for fighting, time out,
she padlocks the inside hasp, duck decoys
and oars silent, waterfowl art, easel with the
duck stamp canvas, vintage crocks stenciled
artists mica flakes, dried honeycomb lifted from the
bee hives, snowshoes tracked wives, Currier & Ives,
hoes and rakes,cattails and clothesline rope,
Norman Rockwell,
my Saturday Evening Post,
an encounter with renewed passion
that keeps itself this side of the door,
the permeating fragrance of sweetpeas
twisting up a tipi of stakes, today's clothes
she wore strewn on the sawdust floor, the hour
of the day when the scent intensifies, sensuously
intoxicated on the focus on handcrafted dwellings,
she holds her breath, hoping to prolong the moment...
Yes, Sage, to prolong the moment. Instead of a shed, I had
an attic "studio" where I spent many a day in deep meditation.
You, as always, delight me, inspire me, amuse me, and exhaust me.
I'm beholden. Love, gene.
Wow! Moods are chosen, yet in your words, found mine changing...therefore I am choosing to... head off to my own garden shed..."Hey Pauly? where's that ole smoker of yours?" LOL!
Fantastic pen, Sage!
Keep um' coming!:)
Love and Peace~
Kimmy~
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton
9/19/2009
I'm there with her and smelling what she is smelling and seeing what she is seeing; the rawness of the shed, the barn, the silo bin is offset by the nostalgia of days past as Norman watches lustily behind his smoke curling corncob pipe as the red tick hound blows air through his drooling lips and shifts for a better position, all the while she is taking herself where she has been before so it is no surprise when she gasps and Norman coughs and the hound raises his head and lets out a howl which merges with hers as they both hit notes never before attained.
Just a simple gathering of the Gay & Lesbian Activist Association of New Birch and Sipsboror (GLAABS) and we plunge down a hilarious ride to perdition.
Martin Powers wanted an ironing board for Christmas. Instead, he got . . . Matthew Kieler, a non-returnable gift, but a gift that kept on giving. A powerful tale of survival, compassion and unapologetic love in the time of AIDS.
During the 1960's a young soldier struggles with basic training, a bully sergeant and his own inner demons. A tale of struggle, redemption and survival.
