Waste Not, Want Not
One of my biggest
in life is
my inability to
to its tube.
I can insert key to lock,
throw pill to mouth,
squeeze foot to sock,
slide letter to mailbox,
transfer love to heart—
cram toothpaste to tube.
I didn’t earn a
Harvard Law degree,
or Stanford PhD—
I’m not a Rhodes scholar,
or Oxford Fellow—
Cal Tech Engineer,
or win Summa Cum Laude honor.
Coupling those failures
with less than a kindergartener’s
makes life a constant
the toothpaste debacle.
Though I've thought about it muchly,
I have no idea what Heaven is like,
or if I will be welcome there.
I've had hunches before,
but many of them proved wrong.
In my place of childhood,
a narrow village next a sluggish river,
there is a reassuring sign
kept near its doorway:
Bothell Welcomes You
For A Day Or A Lifetime.
Life carried me away
from there some time ago,
but I still wonder if,
when my turn comes,
despite my faithless life and multitude of sin,
Eternity might be edited in.
If the only
could share about his life
for the obituary
"He still had most of his teeth,"
we can be quite certain he had
at least one woman,
and didn't much like dogs.
some credit is due because,
he managed to brush
three times a day.
Lady Coetzee Travels Abroad
At the checkpoint, Doortje Coetzee, a native geranium,
pottered along until she reached the front of the line.
The officer glanced through her South Africa passport,
then squeezed out a cordial greeting.
“Good morning, Ms. Coetzee. Where are you off to this fine day?”
Doortje offered up a hopeful smile.
“I have an auntie living in America. A small corner called Seattle.
Time I got round to seeing her.”
A pink blush flooded her petals.
“I’ll turn seven come spring.” She sighed. “Life is much too short.”
“Will Seattle be your final destination then?”
“No. Auntie winters in Arizona. We’ll fly there with her keeper in October.”
“I’ve heard Seattle is a bit rainy, but a lovely place,” the man said.
“Love the rain,” Doortje replied. "If I avoid the frost I’ll be safe enough.”
The officer studied the document. “I take it you’re a perennial?”
Doortje giggled. “Depends. We’re all perennials at birth, of course.
Crane Bill cuttings on Mother’s side. My auntie is almost forty years old.”
“How nice,” he said. “Mine never last more than a season.
Suicidal little buggers.”
Dortje frowned. A tinge of anger crept into her voice.
“We can only live our life according to the affection we are given.
We need to avoid frost at all costs. It murders us straightaway.
Intense summer sun is difficult too. We crave afternoon shade.”
He handed her document back. “Sorry. Meant no harm.”
“None taken. If you’ll love those buggers of yours, they’ll love you back.
Fare-thee-well, she called, "I've a plane to catch.”
“Next,” he said.
Photo by Kris Schulze on Pexels.com
Deny It Not
We are of the sea
and of the caves,
has rinsed us clean
of these dim
And yet we still long
to splash about,
ride the tumultuous waves,
explore dark spaces.
Yes, we have
our desperate thirst for water—
our voracious appetite for meat—
our hideous capacity for violence—