Wrightings

J. L. Wright Lari Jo Wallace Edwards Sharon Purcell  

Born in the sixties, from a jungle on the other side of the world, body bags on the nightly news were counted. Growing up in the seventies those enemies became church refugees dark skin, smooth voiced, heartthrobs In the eighties, the world was mine eager to explore and learn  ready to make a dent of change Real world crashed the nineties living in a daily grind paying back with nothing to pay forward  The aughts, depressed mortality  paternal loss looking for something  shifting ideas and ideals Teens gifted financial independence  freedom to escape expectations  filling someone else’s dreams Now, the twenties, twist the flesh hoping to be top shelf

  Frost  The new calf lies in the matted grass. Her tired mother stands protective Crisp blades cut the umbilical cord like frost on a wire a bubble of stillness Standing alone The braided wire, taunt a fence between matted grasses mottled with frost bubbles  and frost teeth

The books of the world  do not have all the answers  or all the stories. So, here I write something familiar,  relatable but new. Let my words rattle your gut knock loose undigested tales the ones set aside  like cold mashed potatoes  when there is giblet dressing. There may not be room enough  but hold fast  measure their importance weigh out staples of caloric intake but do not throw them out. These stories are common,  leftovers shall we say, cheap and easy to improve. Some better more substantial more satisfying. But do they really need  more butter  or gravy? 

  Buried shoes on my feet, all afternoon and night tending bar and waiting tables  happy hour until closing silly Irish storytellers sing shanties   tending bar and waiting tables racecar owners tip heartily silly Irish storytellers sing shanties managers provide support outside of work   racecar owners tip heartily dog greets me with wagging tale mangers provide support outside of work showering away the grease smell   dog greets me with wagging tale my feet tired, sore, and odiferous work shoes buried as if something has died on my feet, all afternoon and night

A full moon would have welcomed this night but instead a wee slice hung like a hook in the marcasite sky. The rough road made the car pitch and veer until I slowed to a snails pace. I was never going to the get to the poetry reading on time, who found this great short cut on that stupid map?  Of course, I had, someone who actually owned a paper map of the national forest roads in the county. Mostly logging roads, pitted with deep potholes from skidders and semis. My little Hyundai was doing pretty good so I should have given her more credit that the grief as I beat on the dash when she finally plopped into one of the holes and decided she’d gone far enough.  The tires spun in the mud, I tried to rock’er back and forth to no avail. No poetry reading for me I thought. It was still early, barely 6 but dusk was here and of course as I picked up my cellphone from the passenger side floorboard, I saw the “no service” right away.  Now what, it was at least three miles back to the better road

 How not to cry For Karen When your husband needs care you cannot give  and your saintly mom has finished living the she lived and Covid 19 is something you hope to outlive  it’s important not to cry,  don’t give in, don’t ask why just holdfast ‘til this has passed you can crumble when we’re through this jumble so take a breath, take a walk,  count your blessings, just watch the clock it will tick away  and when it’s through you can say they were all lessons to be learned and your angel wings you have been earned (C)2020 J. L. Wright

  Big Sur   Born a decade late blessed to be a hippie at heart but a prim and proper teacher I knew I could never be either            really  just something in between In 1999, I drove my Volkswagen van Along CA 1, long blond hair  blowing In the wind,  singing with the Eagles I pulled into the mecca, Big Sur late on a Sunday afternoon enjoyed my cafe' faire  art in converted water tanks the manager began closing  I felt hurried  but was reassured, I was welcome  “stay as long as I want” She joined me as I sipped my  second cup, I asked what life is like on this beautiful  desolate section of the coast  She told me, Mother Nature has control  you can’t see the rest of the world  when the fog rolls in mudslides stop access to and from community comes together  shares what they have. In 1998 the road was closed for three months neighbors’ personal pantries  became grocery stores Until helicopters dropped supplies I knew I was home She invited me to stay Park in her yard Hike the tra

 

  The light  shining through their wings Is the rainbow  after the rain

  He came because, he was left not borrowed or blue but cream and we wed our lives joined until death and now I grieve Each day we ate and walked  and went to the bathroom  I brushed his wild locks pulled sticker burrs, and patted  In return he listened as I read recipes and looked for keys he sat and danced, and twirled upon request, never command He traveled to Dallas, Houston and Corpus and met family and friends and was a family friend  and now they grieve  For Peggy O  August 2023

In the beginning there was freedom,  freedom by separation, freedom in  independence shaky and new. But,  freedom grew through colonization  and land grabs. We exploited the land,  the people, the resources.  We looked outside; sought exchange,  some fair some not; fought in wars,  some fair some not, looked beyond to  the moon and the stars, looked inside  our minds and oceans. We created  technologies and science.  So now, it it time to bring what we’ve  learned home, help the homeless, the  veterans, the children. Ensure freedoms  for the future, take care of our lands and  waters. Renew out sovereignty within our  borders; honor individualism and dignity  for all, celebrating our United States.