Lazy Sundays and a bad onion

Puttering through a too cold to go out
Lazy Sunday
Listens to The Smiths
How soon is now
She knows the now is really this moment
The dogs at her feet as she washes the dishes
Once more
Dinner in the pot
Puts the potatoes away
Moving the things in the pantry to and fro
A stream of brown juice from a bag
No that is not right
She pulls out the things within
The dark confines
We must have good
Nothing bad
In the bag a plume like the head of an exotic bird
Peering up so yellow, so grand.
No, must go, purge the trash
From down below
She looks at him with a smile
We can grow our own she says with
A soft laugh but the ground is too cold
And the time for planting is not now.
There is a time for everything and today is a lazy
Read the paper
Kind of day,
She knows it is a good day
The obits she does not see her name,
Her time is now to be contrary
To her feelings
To be thankful and count her blessings.
The onion joins the potato peels in the trash
It’s time will come to grow
In the landfill
Amongst the other discarded things
Letters, papers, thoughts and such,
She sits quietly and ponders tomorrow.

Strange slumber(truth in dream)

Eight o’clock my eyes fight
To stay awake,alert –
So tired lately keeping the
Current house malaise at bay
A coconut rum and pineapple juice
Yes, another please. Leave it at two
And then to the confines of warm blankets and slumber.
I see my sister in dreams,
She came to my house with some men,
Said she was in love
The others,just friends.
Yet she is married in life, I did not question this moment.
They were of Arabic descent
Which for her past tastes in men seemed unusual.
One offered me a smoke,
I have not smoked in seven years I reply,
These are organic, I roll them myself he says.
I take one
It resembles a joint
I question that….he laughs,
This is special, from a country far away.
I light it, the smoke curling in tendrils around my head,
Yes, this is illegal,
Even in sleep I remember thinking
I will get fired at work with this in my system so I put it down.
I awoke after this,
Wondering how our brain can be free
In the deepest dream state but so aware
Of what we should or should not do.
Is this not a sleep prison? Where is the freedom
If we can’t in sleep
Do all we dream?
My thoughts in dreams lately
Run to the bizarre
The zany even,
But I am thankful for they have become
My muse.
Sweet dream muse.

Anger behind cloud/flying

Cat vomit times eight
Clean up knows no end
Cat trashes trash , fifty-two pickup
Of Q-tips and hair and Kleenex
Clinging dogs like vultures
Fed twice and treat
Never enough
Let me in
Let me out
Dishes times three
Loads that is
Every frying pan in the house
And freshly made bagels
Lay cool on a rack
As the cat tries to push them
One after another
Onto the floor below.
Enough, enough
Take me away now
Do I lock myself in the john
For a little time for me….
He looks at me and rubs my shoulder
Asks what’s wrong
Afraid it may be him
nothing and everything
I just need a break
I go outside to help plow the deck
And the walk and
The lawn, for the dogs we do,
Taking out my anger on the crystal white snow
Be gone,be gone
It flies back at me
My blue jacket and hat
Now sparkling white.
Done at last
I return to the cave
Throw the dogs a big assed bone
And knowing calm
I fly away.