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Raw Honey

Raw Honey 

©Jo Hewitt The Teal Mango 2017
                                    

It has been a year.                                 

Shall we again meet?

Shall we gather

In your city

Or would you rather

Mine?

Choose.

Either is fine.

Shall I bring chocolate

And pastry sweet?

Truffles perhaps,

Rosemary, Cayenne, or Lime?

Name the date.

Name the time.

Shall we talk of then or now?

Shall we talk, compare each different path?

Shall we give voice

To the aftermath

Of the why and how

Of each one’s choice,

Of our each different path?

Do you want coffee, tea, espresso?

“Oh, the tea” you might say.

“I guess so.”

For me,

I might choose the coffee.

It is long since my life,

My surroundings,

Afforded me the civility

Of the fragrance of tea.

 

Please, say again

Where shall we meet,

We three

To savor old times

With coffee or tea.

Shall it be your condo?

Or shall it be your

Backyard and pond

Beyond

Your screened porch?

Shall you, or shall I pour?

How much sugar does it take

To sweeten your tea?

One lump,

Two, three,

Four?

How many more?

You stop at three?

Lumps in life come differently.

I will decline the sweetener,

Real or artificial

As may be your habit

or your ritual.

I now drink mine

Bitter, a bit.

As we sip,

As we sit,

Shall my thoughts lead my mind

To the calm of the pond

Or beyond

And leave my ears behind

With your shallow prate?

I have no patience of late.

Nor time.

I do not understand

The reason or rhyme

Of your need

for shallow discourse.

Of course,

If I offer topics deep,

Me, again, will you berate

And claim I condescend?

Why?

Will I again

Need to defend

To you

My view,

My stance

On the current social brew

And circumstance of

Injustice,

Ignorance,

Bigotry and hate?

Perhaps you cannot fathom it

From your city,

Or this pond.

Yet,

Shall I regret,

Shall I reflect

My lack of circumspect

In what words I proffer?

Perchance,

If I were to offer

You honey raw,

A chance for healing,

(In sugar coating

There is none,

None at all)

Perchance,

In my defense,

If I were to coat your cup

And stir with your delusion,

And seclusion,

A picket from your

White middle class fence,

Would you drink it up?

Would you drink it all?

Could you stomach it raw?

Or would you choke

In the coat

Of feeling?

Swallowing the rawness

Is the healing.

 

It has been a year.

Shall we again meet,

We three?

I think not.

I have not time to savor tea.

Time is short.

Barely time for coffee.

We stand at the shore,

The brim,

Of the rim

Of a blackened sea.

The waves of the old ways,

Cresting, crashing

Have come,

To swallow us,

Bitterly.

 

 

Portrait of Miss Sinclair by William Orpen

Portrait of Miss Sinclair by William Orpen

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku and Loku Days-Fledgling-Transcendence of a Mother’s Love

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2013

The SSB Drever and I chanced a walk today between sprinkles and threats of storms. We traveled along familiar paths. We saw people planting flowers and attending gardens, people sharing luncheons and coffee, a mother patiently on the sidelines while her daughter practiced, learning to ride her bicycle. People were out and about enjoying the life that the refreshing air of spring brings. New beginnings, hope, a fresh outlook.

But at one point on the walk, I just stopped; tears welled up in me. Before me on the pavers was the body of a baby bird, its eyes closed, its body still naked, bereft of the feathers that would allow it to soar. It had landed in a somewhat contorted position with one wing twisted, pointing up toward the sky, the wind morbidly causing a slight flutter, belying a false sense of the hope of the resurgence of life . I looked up into the little crab apple tree to see the mother robin just sitting there, in the nest, not moving, barely blinking, keeping vigilance over the body of her baby child. How utterly horrible to have your baby taken from you to the realm of death. I stood for awhile to mourn with her, I cried the tears she could not.

I thought of my own children. I thought of the love that mothers give and the torment that mothers could endure in the day to day vigilance in the caring and rearing of their children in normal life let alone the horror of having them destroyed before you from war or starvation or from so many other atrocities.

I thought of my mother and her death only two months ago, of her last week of life, her body pale, her bareness, bareness of animation of her soul, an occasional movement of a finger or wrist, not unlike the death flutter of the dead baby bird. But her eyes were open and in them I could see the excruciating pain of dying. I thought of all the sacrifices she had made for all of us, of all the times a little part of her died.

I feel in someways we are all fledglings at any stage of life-or death. I am still a fledgling, not quite able to soar. Every stage of life requires the fearlessness of spirit to take flight. There are days I just don’t have it. I can no longer look to a nest for support, my mother hovering by. How many times in these two months have I thought, “Oh, I’ll call Mom.” But I can’t.  My children will always be my fledging babies. I stand back and watch them heading into the winds of the different stages of life. I am happy that they seem to be stronger and can fly higher than I could ever dream.

Mother child mother child mother child-the generations become one-one continuous cycle of life and love, of giving love and yearning for love. A mother’s love, no matter what form, bird or human, is an incarnation of the life force-love.

.

Fledgling-Transcendence of a Mother’s love

 
 

Robin


Silent spring mourning,
 
Blind, bare, broken winged fledgling,                                
Dying flutter tears.                                                                                                          
                                                                    
 
 
 

Haiku and Loku Days-It Is Always the Stroke of Midnight

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2013

New Year’s Eve has come and gone. Many people made many resolutions to better themselves for the coming year. Why wait for the end of one year and the beginning of the next, especially since the western year is so arbitrarily positioned. Why not use the Asian New Year, or the beginning of a new season-a solstice or an equinox, or the dawn of each new day or each and every beat of your heart and breath you take?

I used to tell people my days were numbered. And as the aghast look of sorrow and pity would appear on their faces, I would say: “There is the first day of the month, the second day of the month, the third day of the month and so on. Just check any calendar!”  But none of us knows which is the circled red-letter day of which month of which year that on which will come the call to move on, call it quits in this realm.

“…Bring thyself to account each day…”    Each day?-Maybe with each heart beat, with each breath. With each breath live a new day. Decide who and what you want to be. Make the resolution for and at that moment, the one you are holding in your hand. Make it now, for that is all we have. Don’t wait for the next New Year’s Eve.

It Is Always the Stroke of Midnight

New year, a new day
New heartbeat, each, a chance, 
Resolution, change.
 
 

ganges-at-dawn-art-nomad-sandra-hansen

Ganges at Dawn by Sandra Hansen

Snowball Bush -prelude to “The Gypsy Graveyard”

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2010
May Snowballs by Kim Stenberg

May Snowballs by Kim Stenberg

When the snowball bush blooms, you know it is the end of spring. It is fascinating that when your arms are sweaty, when the iron rail up the steps is too hot to touch, when the boundary between the outdoors and indoors becomes a fine wire mesh of house flies on a banging screen door, that there are ready made snowballs, yours for the picking, by the gas tank under the bathroom window.

 
That tank used to scare me. It looked like a big white ghost creature in the moonlight. And sometimes there was a little hissing noise coming from it. Maybe at night it did come alive. What if it came into the bathroom window and waited for me in the dark. Bathrooms are scary at night. Well, every thing can be scary at night, but especially bathrooms, and dark stairways, and the thought that maybe you waited too long and you would wet your pants and in the morning the yelling and screaming would start. But bathrooms are scary on a hot summer day, too. I always heard about how gas could explode when it was hot or near a flame. And the house would burn down and people would die. I figured sitting on the commode, all exposed like that would be a really bad time for the gas to go. That’ s what I would think of when I was six.

Spring is a happy time for me. But the snowball bush is blooming, it’ s getting hot. I’m not six any more, I’m ten. And it is not spring anymore, it has ended and it is getting hot. And the words around the house are hot. Snowballs in summer are an illusion.The security of home is an illusion. The towels from the bathroom, the plates from the kitchen, a few family pictures are boxed and hidden away, the way stifled words in the night are hidden.

The snowball bush is blooming and spring has ended. And other things have ended. I’m in a car, driving to I don’ t know where. I get sick in cars. It doesn’ t matter how much I crack the window, it can’ t quell the heat of summer and the hotness of the words that my mom and dad now have packed away, buried deep inside them.

I look down at the snowball in bloom that I picked, the last ghostly remnant of my old life, already wilted in my hand. I turn my head toward the window and lean into the glass, watch the farms and the fence posts along the road. Maybe I can fall asleep. Maybe I am already asleep. I listen for the hissing of the gas tank, hoping to awaken. All I hear is the motor of our car, its vibrations pushing me into the box of sleep.

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