Nothing makes me happier
somedays than geraniums;
in fact, so much does depend
upon the red geraniums in the sun,
their incredible bright red pop
into life on my porch and patio.
Red glows with an enlivened life.
It glows like a smile.
A smile that stays a while,
a smile of attunement to the moon, even.
At dusk, the geraniums croon.
They sing songs, like he did,
singing, Fly Me to the Moon.
Red pops with life like red poppies,
but poppies put you to sleep--
but not geraniums! Their red flows
like sacred cups of the wine of life.
Red is the Queen of Hearts (Cups)
and the Queen of Diamonds (Swords)
in the deck you are dealt.
Red enlivens the hand
with which you shuffle and play,
play and shuffle and play.
All hands on deck! Now,
pour me red red wine!
Red is the nice whine of life,
the summer's sigh in the high heat
of noon, the sun's long hand
stretching down upon your shoulder
in that hot stretch that looms
over you, enraptures you, makes you
swoon with summer love
Maroon is nice, too.
Heady at times, the deep
artery of the day's heart,
the mind's heart, too.
It can get real deep,
the deep way too deep
with a sad reminder in the
sunshine of my moment's joy,
a quick turnover
of the gentle wind into gale.
Oh, maroon,
here I am marooned.
marooned, marooned,
all all marooned,
those toenails, that purse, that lipstick
that deserted love you carry
that has left you behind
on this island that has you
marooned.
Oh, what the heck!
All hands on deck! Lower the sails!
Toss them in the sea!
Get lost!
For the day!
Marooned I will stay!
Until my next ship comes in, full
of my red wine and roses
and oh yes getting back, the geraniums, have some
potting soil shipped here too!
Flowerpots all over this bloody island!
Everywhere red!
And my maroon, my muted red,
my serious red,
put the humor aside,
my mute red
like a mute red swan.
Bold as it is,
maroon makes no sound.
Where is its voice?
Where did his go?
He left me this summer
and I am left trying to be happy.
Sometimes I succeed.
I promised myself a rose garden,
it is growing, on its way,
while my man is
on his way
to heaven.
We all lose things sometimes.
Some lose their wings,
some lose their voice,
some break their fingernails
that fall off into their gardens like tears,
some lose a feather in the water
in the briliant last sparkle of late afternoon sun.
Some of us drop a shoe among the weeds we don't see
until October when the tall dead greens get cut,
when the forlorn orange bridges
the bands of muting red and trumpet blaring swan yellow,
bright then mellow yellow, a new hello,
for a long goodbye.
_____
I love my ray of sunshine,
to Dennie Ray Hall,
my departed beloved,
Love, Marianne