Dearest,
It starts with the missing toothbrush.
The home knows something is not right.
She smells it in the raw scent of Chanel
Filling the air without a hint of Brut.
She slyly catches you reaching for one cup,
But when only one reaches the sink, she knows.
She counts the number of suitcases,
She stares at the shoe rack, adding up the pairs.
She looks for cigarette butts in the pot
And her eyes sweep the floor
for stray ash rolling along.
She goes sniffing the laundry basket
And when she reaches the door,
she finds all the keys inside.
When silence claims all her rooms,
The house knows it’s been deceived again
Of belonging to a home.
Some verses:
#1 He Is Quiet And So Am I by Mahmoud Darwish
He is quiet and so am I.
He sips tea with lemon, while I drink coffee.
That's the difference between us.
Like me, he wears a wide, striped shirt,
and like him, I read the evening paper.
He doesn't see my secret glance.
I don't see his secret glance.
He's quiet and so am I.
He asks the waiter something.
I ask the waiter something…
A black cat walks between us.
I feel the midnight of its fur
and he feels the midnight of its fur…
I don't say to him: The sky today
is clear and blue.
He doesn't say to me: The sky today is clear.
He's watched and the one watching
and I'm watched and the one watching.
I move my left foot.
He moves his right foot.
I hum the melody of a song
and he hums the melody of a similar song.
I wonder: Is he the mirror in which I see myself?
And turn to look in his eyes…but I don't see him.
I hurry from the café.
I think: Maybe he's a killer…
or maybe a passerby who thinks
I am a killer.
He's afraid…and so am I.
#2 Poem for a 75th Birthday by Marilyn L. Taylor
Love of my life, it's nearly evening
and here you still are, slow-dancing
in your garden, folding and unfolding
like an enormous grasshopper in the waning
sun. Somehow you've turned our rectangle
of clammy clay into Southern California,
where lilacs and morning-glories mingle
with larkspur, ladyfern and zinnia—
all of them a little drunk on thundershowers
and the broth of newly fallen flowers. I can't get over how the brightest blooms
seem to come reaching for your hand,
weaving their way across the loom
of your fingers, bending
toward the trellis of your body.
They sway on their skinny stems
like a gang of super-models
making fabulous displays of their dumb
and utter gratitude, as if they knew
they'd be birdseed if it weren't for you.And yet they haven't got the slightest clue
about the future, they behave as if
you'll be there for them always, as if you
were the sun itself, brilliant enough
to keep them in the pink, or gold, or green
forever. Understandable, I decide
as I look at you out there—as I lean
in your direction, absolutely satisfied
that summer afternoon is all
there is, and night will never fall.
Some soft wisdom:
Some tunes:
Goodness to walk away with from the nook:
Chuckle a li’l
Read: How to cope with being triggered (wonderfully put)
Listen:
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See you next Sunday,
Love, Riya
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Find me on Instagram @thenookseeker
#110 Don't call it home and leave without a goodbye