new sunlight on dying elm
stray cat rubs my leg and calls for breakfast
defeated, the roof’s shadow slips away
turning point(s) near
morning’s hot wind moves withering vines outside my kitchen window
quickening . . .
© Kenny Ray Bryant – 2014
I’ve been unsettled lately. . . .
I’m getting older and I feel it. Diabetes, arthritis, hypertension, neuropathy, and back issues govern much of life. Creating verse, cutting the grass, working on the house or car, bending over (and actually getting back up again), actively participating in wild-ass-screaming-shake-the-rafters sex, are all things that I now have to plan in advance: seek my body’s permission for.
My job of many years has turned a corner and started down a road I’m uncomfortable with. There’s almost no chance it will never be the same again. Standing up to management and taking up for a vulnerable person nearly got me fired recently . . . and it still may! I no longer want to be there, but fear of starting over keeps me planted in my seat.
I have a child with autism who, at 21, has aged out of the school system. He, his mother and I, are all in unknown territory now. I want the best for him, but I don’t know what the hell that is.
I’ll be getting new neighbors on two sides of my property very soon. I didn’t like the old neighbors, but I like change even less. I worry they’ll have the kind of kids or dogs that will disturb my peace.
In the news this morning was a photograph of a brand-new van that someone procured for my youngest brother . . . he’ll be preaching the gospel from it. I guess I should be happy for him, but for reasons I can’t fully articulate at this time, the sight of that vehicle – with the family name emblazoned on each side – just bugs the living shit out of me.
I’ve been mentoring a young nephew who is interested in writing. And while I am enjoying that immensely, it has used up a lot of my limited energy. I’m now far behind on much-needed renewal activities: my own writing and the reading which I enjoy so.
And last, the recent death of comedian Robin Williams has forced me to relive the events surrounding the suicide of my favorite brother, twenty-one years ago. My brother’s children – grown now – have asked me a lot of questions since Williams’ death. I hope I’ve answered them well.
Well . . . there you have it. I hope this explains why I’ve been bit moody and/or disappeared from radar.