What if

this

is Death?

Me,

here, on this

couch,

dizzy-breathing,

new-age music playing from the

TV speakers.

Do I know the difference?

Yes, I see my

children

there,

(still, so

far away),

by text, or

on blue

screen only –

Hush –

they are

thriving and

okay.

What if…

Wrote this poem as a palate cleanser for some heavier poetry I’ve been writing

photo, author’s own.

Here, by the water,

everything is beautiful,

sand-crusted swells,

tiers

blown like moonscape

from so much daylight and

wind.

Inhale.

Inhale!

Breathe deeply and let

salt and

hope

fill your lungs,

watch seagull lift and

plummet,

They are

gutting

our bathroom,

hauling out the tub where

I bathed you both

for years,

watched with eagle eyes so you

might not

slip under,

made mohawks in your hair from

white foam,

moved toy dinosaur

across ledge

growling, “rawr, rawr, rawr,”

soaked my sleeves to my

elbows.

Another stab at an abcderian poem

Photo credit: Stephanie Martin with permission. Not a blue jay, I know. But it’s gorgeous.

Acrid, burn these

broken days,

clouded by covid,

damned by the

elimination of hope.

Forgive me for

grieving that which did not exist

how was I so foolish to believe

it did?

Just yesterday, a bluejay

kited past my window,

landing on the shrub…

Original collage, author’s own (source image, woman: Maira Kalman)

I typed an envelope to you

today

(to mail the condolence card

I’ve been meaning to

send).

Like me,

you’ve always kept

your

own last name.

Does this, I wonder,

make it easier to find

oneself

(there in the abyss)

after love

has gone?

_____

Gae is the author of…

A friend challenged me to write an abcedarian poem. Here’s my first stab. A-Z … and back again!

Me, masked and getting boosted, because THAT is what patriots do.

Again with this

bullshit!

Can’t you see that

defenseless newborn laboring for breath?

Every day, another

family broken.

Grieving, begging for

Photo author’s own.

The fall foliage came late this year

after endless

pandemic

and

an inordinate amount

of

rain

(then heat,

then

drought)

tricking us into believing

it might not come.

Now, as I drive through our neighborhood,

the Japanese maples explode in a

profusion of

color:

canary yellow,

marigold orange, and

excruciating…

Honor, remembrance, and how time flies

Photo, author’s own. The day my father returned from Vietnam.

(This post was originally written in 2012. My sons are now 26 and 23. And my dad and me. . . Well we don’t want to talk about that. )

Yesterday —

two weeks after Hurricane Sandy ravaged our island,

gae polisner

Just another writer trying to stay afloat in a sea of words. Author of several novels. Wannabe mermaid. Mother. Trying to age gracefully with no grace in sight.

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