Crockery

by Kathy Larson

I don’t mind
the crooked bowl,
the cup with a chip, or
the mismatched plates.

It’s the life I chose.

The life I love.

These small
imperfections
These minor
flaws
Are daily reminders
that though
I thought
I sought
perfection,
Perfection,
it turns out,
is just
a bunch of
crock – ery.

Lately. . .

by Kathy Larson

Lately I’ve been feeling the pull of the past; I get these odd tugs at my memory and for fleeting seconds I go back in time and my heart offers up fragments of bits and pieces of the many versions of me that I’ve been as I’ve struggled to become this woman, this person, this identity.

Snapshots of my childhood flit across my inner vision — fields of grain and candy red poppies swaying in the heat of summer; a feeling that if I could float across them, be borne away on dry, whispering oceans of delicate beauty my life would be . . .

Just the other day the breeze through my bedroom window brought with it a smell of damp earth and of dust heavy with the warmth of the sun and as I lay there, in my bed, contemplating the reasons for rising that day I relived another morning from many years past of sheets twisted around legs and drowsy smiles and an inkling of what might come and in that moment I lived such delirious happiness that when I thought upon it now, all grey haired, crows feet and papery skin I marvelled at how far I had come and smiled, because regret is such a silly waste of time.

Mine is a poor memory, details have not been carefully curated and there are times when I’ve struggled to believe that my life has even been half of what I imagine it was, but where my mind fails my heart triumphs. One line from a song heard when I was sixteen can cause it to beat erratically and once more I am that young girl so sure yet unsure in my elephant-leg bell bottoms, platform shoes and pink plaid smock top striding down the dusty small town street of my youth wishing I was anywhere but there. A blue mustang pulls up, I hop in, Aerosmith blasts from an 8-track player, tires squeal, there is no better moment than the one I am in right now.

In reliving these moments past, these still-lifes, these clips and snap-shots of my life story I have come to recognize the finiteness of every hour that I have left and, consequently, I have wasted many of them thinking about all the mistakes I’ve made, the wrongs I’ve committed, the people I’ve hurt, the chances I didn’t take, the fears and prejudices I’ve allowed myself to be subject to, and then, in turn, I have used some of those hours to remind myself of the love I’ve given and been given, of the kindnesses I’ve shown and been shown, of the sacrifices I’ve made and of those made for me, of the successes I’ve enjoyed, and of the life I’ve lived, and though every hour may seem shorter than the one before I need only remember: these are my hours. And the heart will remember.

Feeling like a poem on a Sunday morning

 

 

20180915_132835Nothing Lasts

by

Kathy Larson

Nothing lasts.
Not
That feeling.
The one that made you feel invincible,
incredible,
indomitable.
Not
That moment.
The one where love made all things possible,
all things exquisite,
and so
beautifully, terrifyingly painful.
Not
That breath.
The gasp that filled your lungs
with hope,
with longing,
with fear they’d burst you were so happy.
Not
That laugh.
The one you felt would always mean
joy,
acceptance,
a feeling of forever.

Nothing lasts.
Not
That despair.
The darkness that stole everything worth having:
the joy,
the light,
the love.
Not
That sadness.
The one that drained your life of
colour,
of music,
and of magic.
Not
That emptiness.
The void that made you hate your self:
your skin,
your every breath,
your right to be.
Not
That failure.
The one that was
infinitesimal,
not ruinous,
and judged so solely by you.

Nothing lasts.
Unless
You
Choose
To
Make
It
© 2018