Home at Kawphy Hill

My favorite part of my home is if you stand

at the bottom of my kitchen steps

looking towards the front door at around 8PM

when the traffic returns home from their workday

my disco ball chandelier confetti’s my foyer

with dance party festivities.

My favorite part of my home is

if you sit on my back deck under my ancient oak

while the chickens are bathing in the dirt or

scratching where my Hosta’s used to grow and bloom

you can hear St. Thomas on one side, 4th Reformed

greeting midday with their church bells

My favorite part of my home is

if it rains, any amount at all, the basement

because of the slope of our just under quarter acre,

floods rudely sopping the carpet

but not the floor unless it’s a ridiculous amount

which you’d know nothing about here.

A favorite part of my home is found,

almost as much and as frequently,

as the obligatory Kawphy

served in: brewed, pour-over, cappuccino, or Keurig,

because one type isn’t enough when you love it,

are the multitude of teas that can be brought to life

nearly as instantly as the hot pot can boil.

My favorite place in my home is my mailbox.

I feel like “Walking on Sunshine” knowing maybe…

That today might be the day that one of several

who write me frequently may have done so.

They never fail to lift my spirits, bring me joy,

remind me that I matter in the great white north,

in the deep rainy south, in the breezy southwest,

No matter what or where, I am uplifted in their love.

My second favorite part of my mailbox is the flag.

When I see it up, then down, knowing maybe…

they will also know they are loved by me unequivocally.

Another favorite part of my home is my studio

It is my place of solace and solitude

where I can stretch my head and heart

to write whimsical or paint darkness.

I can embrace the mood of muse intimately

without pride or caution as she warms me thickly.

But what I love more than any of those things,

what gives me purpose to breathe life into the walls,

to shovel out the walk for the fourth time today,

to sort the recycling and the trash every Wednesday night

are my family.

Punky the Chihuhua, Herbie the turtle,

Louise, Fifty, Julie, Roy, and Maude the chickens,

(Two of which are indoor and wear diapers)

Our pet Human, Will, that I found on a street corner,

guitar strapped to his back as he headed out to busk

one freezing sunny snowy Sunday morning a couple of years ago.

Back then, he asked for a warm place to sleep for the night,

he’s never left and I don’t want him to, neither does Ben.

Without Ben the Great or me, we aren’t the we,

that make our Home at Kawphy Hill

Energy Raising

My hips give off special magic, they ring morning vesper bells

coaxing sinners from their beds, they call to worship at the bethel

My hands offer up a special magic, they pull miracles large or miniscule

ever a vessel, a spiritual homestead, within me always dwell.

Sing we now in loud HOSANNA! Sing we now in great HOORAH!

Create the place of holy word from your lips to the ears of your God!

Anarchy

Revolution!

Redemption!

You can’t have it with your vintage views.

No labels

Who am I? Who are you?

Comfort zone boundaries

self-safety at what cost?

Sirens make me nervous

Thanatos was silent…until he wasn’t.

Then I was introduced to him as an unwilling lover

What owns you?

Person?

Thing?

Why is order so important if Anarchy is freedom?

Blazing Bonfire

I’m watching the orange hat man in the red flannel shirt and black gloves drink beer and toss corn hole.

His game partner is more pale of skin, wearing Lions jacket and a black hat. I suspect he is a Ryan or Chad, possibly a Todd.

The lattice fence behind them holds the picket porch at arm’s length.

A burst of laughter erupts. Orange hat guy has the orange bag that he curls in circles in his hand.

When he releases the bag at the top of the arch, his hand is like a painting in a city-scape for urban happiness.

A smolder plumes lightly with the breeze that precedes the storm threatening the evening hours.

Flap-flap hat and baseball cap are covering up the fire or adding up a larger stash.

Orange hat guy lights up a smoke. He has…HOLY BLAZES of black smoke and Christmas trees!

They’re all watching it burn. The pine tar smoke rises thick with quick and danger because the speed changed.

They’re up by the garage where I sometimes pass at night.

They’re pouring more gas. I’m slightly afraid of the large tree within wind distance from their need to burn.

Flap-flap hat guy is smoking a cigarette. He has a mustache. He reminds me of my brother and his friends before the military.

Baseball hat guy wears his brim forward and sports a full beard and mustache set neatly trimmed. Probably married.

Corn hole continues. Black and orange teams throw up-handed and across board.

Black hat dude just pissed by the garage with his back to me. His shoulders shook as he finished.

Orange hat dude paraded through the back yard with a baby in pink jacket and red polka dot dress. She flew above the fence.

Cloak of Life

I.

When I was first born, swaddled in a blanket was I

with a white cotton diaper wrapped four corner

pinned with non-fancy pink or yellow ducks (Don’t pin the baby)

plastic pants singing to my cooing grandparents.

I was cloaked in the life of infantile adoration

II.

In most neighborhoods, much like yours or yours

there is a coming of age where you must decide

the grade of sheets you wished to slumber upon

Prison grade? Military Grade? Dorm Grade? Or

Hand-me-down childhood covered in favorite cartoons?

Cloaked in hope and ambition!

III.

When you lay your head upon your lover’s breast

Thump-Thump! Thump-Thump! Thump-Thump!

Dreaming awake together of chronological success

House-Car-Kids! House-Car-Kids! House-Car-Kids!

D-d-divorce! (Like a trumpet)

Grow Old! (Like a lighthouse horn)

Remarry (Like “Jane, his Wife” from the Jetsons)

Don’t Worry, Die Happy (Like Bobby McFerrin who is inspiring AF)

Cloaked in life’s chaotic awe inspiring wonder (Like you)

IV.

The final shroud laid

body of dust beneath

Charon has been paid

tormented bequeathed

A soul’s end masquerade

buried in frozen heath

Grieve the mother’s serenade

laying the cloak of life’s wreath.

Believe Me (TRIGGER WARNING!!!)

Do me a favor when I tell you I’m afraid?

Believe me.

I’m not one to go throwing around dark shade,

Believe me.

I’m giving you a name of the person I don’t trust.

Believe me.

I’d rather look a fool than you hear ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Believe me.

Don’t dismiss my feelings like I don’t have a reason,

Believe me.

I’ve known who he is since I met him Christmas season.

Believe me.

He’s the reason when I walk I recite the Lord’s Prayer.

Believe me.

He’s the reason I need to know where you are to prepare.

Believe me.

I genuinely need you to hear me and believe me.

Believe.

ME!