I'm having a hard time figuring out this whole dating thing. A lot of these guys on dating sites seem just plain strange.
There are 2 million people on this dating site, maybe 300 that match your self-determined criteria regarding age, location, non-smoker, etc. Eliminate the ones with the two-line, misspelled, non-punctuated profile; now you're down to 30. Of those, anyone who appears to be older than my dad gets the old heave-ho. Leaving me with 10 possibles.
With odds like that, there's no way to be too choosy about looks or common interests. You start relying on the chance that he'll clean up okay, and you'll find some things to do together that are tolerable for both.
That only-slightly-creepy guy with the bags under his eyes, whose photos all seem to have been taken at a carnival, with an outdated wardrobe, and a motorcycle (an unexpected bonus) is lookin' dang good. I send him a little note, saying hello.
His response is a somewhat crude one liner, an attempt to be coy. Seriously? I'm 47. You've likely got a deteriorating liver and one foot in the grave. Coyness doesn't seem like the called for thing here.
I just wanted a motorcycle ride, so I can make use of the leather jackets, chaps, helmet, boots and gloves I bought to ride with the last guy I dated. Wait - does anyone have a snowmobile? I have all new gear for that too, only used once!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Cordwood
The days lean
into each other in a
thick forest of time.
Evenings,
she stacks them
outside the back door,
hewn and spent,
in neat cordwood rows.
In the palm of
each branch
lies a story,
ringing the years.
Rough bark surrounds
and protects her.
She is oak
and aspen,
she is willow.
Slam of the screen door
slaps the night.
She walks out into the rain.
Warm, it soaks her
skin and hair.
Sinks her feet into the soft,
moist earth.
Rooted now,
she draws upward.
Arms outstretched,
she crowns, full,
touches stars
in the dark sky.
She grows.
Mary Ellen Seidel
8/2002
The days lean
into each other in a
thick forest of time.
Evenings,
she stacks them
outside the back door,
hewn and spent,
in neat cordwood rows.
In the palm of
each branch
lies a story,
ringing the years.
Rough bark surrounds
and protects her.
She is oak
and aspen,
she is willow.
Slam of the screen door
slaps the night.
She walks out into the rain.
Warm, it soaks her
skin and hair.
Sinks her feet into the soft,
moist earth.
Rooted now,
she draws upward.
Arms outstretched,
she crowns, full,
touches stars
in the dark sky.
She grows.
Mary Ellen Seidel
8/2002
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The Weaning
He is aware
of absence
through intangibles.
The patio lacks
the smell of her cigarette,
no perfume lingering at her dressing table.
In the refrigerator,
bleak yawning shelves hold
no fresh greens, no yogurt.
A moldering army of take out containers
march across the glass racks.
Her nail polish
in the bathroom cabinet,
shades of pink and red.
He opens one, memories stagger him,
grabs the vanity for balance
dripping blood red on the white porcelain sink.
Dreaming on the sofa,
the cool of her hand caressing his forehead,
brushing back his hair.
Awakes to darkness and cold hard rain.
He sleeps with her clothing,
a different piece each night,
arms wrapped round her sweaters,
weaning himself,
as her fragrance
slowly fades
away.
Mary Ellen Seidel
Published: Nerve Cowboy 2002
He is aware
of absence
through intangibles.
The patio lacks
the smell of her cigarette,
no perfume lingering at her dressing table.
In the refrigerator,
bleak yawning shelves hold
no fresh greens, no yogurt.
A moldering army of take out containers
march across the glass racks.
Her nail polish
in the bathroom cabinet,
shades of pink and red.
He opens one, memories stagger him,
grabs the vanity for balance
dripping blood red on the white porcelain sink.
Dreaming on the sofa,
the cool of her hand caressing his forehead,
brushing back his hair.
Awakes to darkness and cold hard rain.
He sleeps with her clothing,
a different piece each night,
arms wrapped round her sweaters,
weaning himself,
as her fragrance
slowly fades
away.
Mary Ellen Seidel
Published: Nerve Cowboy 2002
I used to believe all the words of the lovely Desiderata, but as time passes, I find there is really no format for the way each of our lives evolves. Sometimes yes, things happen as they should, but mostly we deal with what we're given, and the people and places we're involved with.
Our lives are the result of actions, choices and decisions we've made. I don't believe we should sit back and wait for "whatever happens, to happen." Life is short. Make it fulfilling. Make it wonderful.
And I still find the Desiderata calming and lovely.
Our lives are the result of actions, choices and decisions we've made. I don't believe we should sit back and wait for "whatever happens, to happen." Life is short. Make it fulfilling. Make it wonderful.
And I still find the Desiderata calming and lovely.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Garden Grave
In the corner of my garden
is a grave,
sunken, shallow
patch of grass
amidst the roses.
Weathered headstone, etched
with faded name and date,
and then below:
SHE WAS MY ONLY
and I wonder more
at what became
of him.
The ivy curls
around the stone
the way her hair may have
gently shaped
her face.
Blue violets and
Solomon’s Seal,
nodding round the grave,
like neighbor ladies
come to tea.
I think she sleeps
content here
in my garden corner.
I leave the moss to grow
over the stone and mark
the passing of time,
but every year
I chop the roses back
and pull away the weeds
to let the sunlight
shift and play upon the grave.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/6/2002
Published: Maelstrom 2002
In the corner of my garden
is a grave,
sunken, shallow
patch of grass
amidst the roses.
Weathered headstone, etched
with faded name and date,
and then below:
SHE WAS MY ONLY
and I wonder more
at what became
of him.
The ivy curls
around the stone
the way her hair may have
gently shaped
her face.
Blue violets and
Solomon’s Seal,
nodding round the grave,
like neighbor ladies
come to tea.
I think she sleeps
content here
in my garden corner.
I leave the moss to grow
over the stone and mark
the passing of time,
but every year
I chop the roses back
and pull away the weeds
to let the sunlight
shift and play upon the grave.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/6/2002
Published: Maelstrom 2002
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Garage Night Sestina
Wednesdays they meet in Royal’s garage for tune up night,
a weekly overhauling of the mind and soul. Royal’s tools
lined up all a-row on the peg wall, by the big tin Slickoil sign
Jimmie stole years ago from Stony’s Full Service Gas and Tire.
Couple old sagging sofas, beer in the frigedaire, salsa and chips.
Beck’s old tv, silent, perched on an inverted rusty garbage can.
Sam, trying to read everything on the 100 best books list, “If I can
just finish this frigging Ulysses.” Pores over obscure phrases night
after night, reads passages aloud that no one understands, chips
away at his tome. Plumber by day, putty and tape in pocket, tools
of his trade. Royal, plinks out songs on his guitar, Ah’ll never tire
of yew, if yew’ll just be true. Becky gives him a thumbs up sign.
Been dating a man from work for three years, looking for any sign
of commitment from him. “Dump him Beck.” Jimmie opens a can
of beer, “Not the guy for you, he can’t even change a flat tire.”
She stares out at the moon, far away, unattainable in the night.
Royal changes gears on the guitar, inventing the western limerick, tools
out a song: There once was a cowgirl from Texas… Poker chips
tossed on the table, cards dealt, raunchy jokes, raucous laughter chips
away layers that fall, shatter on the concrete floor. Jimmie is learning sign
language, a gift to his aged father who is going deaf, his hands, tools
of speech, struggle silently to express tenderness and love as best he can,
things he has never been able to say aloud. A show of bravado on this night,
he handsigns Royal’s blue lyrics. A window frames the moon shining on a tire
swing hung from an elm in the yard. Eons ago Royal’s kids would tire
themselves out with tag and baseball and hide-and-seek there. Before the chips
in his marriage became chasms too wide to echo I love you’s in the night.
Above the door, neon advice blinks: REFRESH YOURSELF on a bar sign.
Played out, Royal parks his guitar in the corner by an empty gas can.
Outside, dogs bark, a child laughs, from doghouse and tree fort not built by his tools.
He is unaware of his fingers strumming arpeggios in the air, searching for the tools
that will comfort him. But tonight, no more cowboy songs. They only tire
him. He watches the dusty fan move its head slowly side to side, no, no, no. “Hey, I can
read F. Scott now, I finished this!” Sam closes his book, reaches for a handful of chips,
rewarding himself for achievement. “ SO, HOW ARE YOU DAD?” Jimmie practices by sign.
In the womb of the garage, a winding down, loosening, a calming in the night.
After the last can of beer, a final stacking of poker chips,
Royal turns off the light, leaving the moon to shine on the tools and the tire
swing as Jimmie waves the sign for good night.
Mary Ellen Seidel
Wednesdays they meet in Royal’s garage for tune up night,
a weekly overhauling of the mind and soul. Royal’s tools
lined up all a-row on the peg wall, by the big tin Slickoil sign
Jimmie stole years ago from Stony’s Full Service Gas and Tire.
Couple old sagging sofas, beer in the frigedaire, salsa and chips.
Beck’s old tv, silent, perched on an inverted rusty garbage can.
Sam, trying to read everything on the 100 best books list, “If I can
just finish this frigging Ulysses.” Pores over obscure phrases night
after night, reads passages aloud that no one understands, chips
away at his tome. Plumber by day, putty and tape in pocket, tools
of his trade. Royal, plinks out songs on his guitar, Ah’ll never tire
of yew, if yew’ll just be true. Becky gives him a thumbs up sign.
Been dating a man from work for three years, looking for any sign
of commitment from him. “Dump him Beck.” Jimmie opens a can
of beer, “Not the guy for you, he can’t even change a flat tire.”
She stares out at the moon, far away, unattainable in the night.
Royal changes gears on the guitar, inventing the western limerick, tools
out a song: There once was a cowgirl from Texas… Poker chips
tossed on the table, cards dealt, raunchy jokes, raucous laughter chips
away layers that fall, shatter on the concrete floor. Jimmie is learning sign
language, a gift to his aged father who is going deaf, his hands, tools
of speech, struggle silently to express tenderness and love as best he can,
things he has never been able to say aloud. A show of bravado on this night,
he handsigns Royal’s blue lyrics. A window frames the moon shining on a tire
swing hung from an elm in the yard. Eons ago Royal’s kids would tire
themselves out with tag and baseball and hide-and-seek there. Before the chips
in his marriage became chasms too wide to echo I love you’s in the night.
Above the door, neon advice blinks: REFRESH YOURSELF on a bar sign.
Played out, Royal parks his guitar in the corner by an empty gas can.
Outside, dogs bark, a child laughs, from doghouse and tree fort not built by his tools.
He is unaware of his fingers strumming arpeggios in the air, searching for the tools
that will comfort him. But tonight, no more cowboy songs. They only tire
him. He watches the dusty fan move its head slowly side to side, no, no, no. “Hey, I can
read F. Scott now, I finished this!” Sam closes his book, reaches for a handful of chips,
rewarding himself for achievement. “ SO, HOW ARE YOU DAD?” Jimmie practices by sign.
In the womb of the garage, a winding down, loosening, a calming in the night.
After the last can of beer, a final stacking of poker chips,
Royal turns off the light, leaving the moon to shine on the tools and the tire
swing as Jimmie waves the sign for good night.
Mary Ellen Seidel
Old Crow
The old woman
wanders through town,
clad in black tattered
man’s overcoat,
a fast food paper crown,
worn, ancient tap shoes.
Birds follow
wherever she ambles,
their dark plumage
an endless wave of
swoop and lift.
Very early mornings
in the village square
she dances,
slow scraping softshoe,
shuffle tap, shuffle tap,
under the cupola’d roof
of the empty gazebo.
After, she curtsies,
tossing handfuls
of seed from her pockets.
The birds
rise and squawk
in a riotous ovation.
Mary Ellen Seidel
The old woman
wanders through town,
clad in black tattered
man’s overcoat,
a fast food paper crown,
worn, ancient tap shoes.
Birds follow
wherever she ambles,
their dark plumage
an endless wave of
swoop and lift.
Very early mornings
in the village square
she dances,
slow scraping softshoe,
shuffle tap, shuffle tap,
under the cupola’d roof
of the empty gazebo.
After, she curtsies,
tossing handfuls
of seed from her pockets.
The birds
rise and squawk
in a riotous ovation.
Mary Ellen Seidel
Resurrection
I sort through my father’s closet
afterward,
his meager wardrobe,
he’d worn the same jacket for
as long as I could remember.
Wing-tips, shined daily,
fifty years old.
He stares from atop the bureau,
smiling, cradling infant me in his arms,
both of us framed in silver, and
I see myself in the mirror, the
spitting image of him.
The photograph seems
oddly, then, me with me.
I put on his Sunday suit, step into
his shoes, and go
down to greet the mourners.
My sister, in the kitchen,
drops her wine glass
when she sees me. I circulate
through the rooms, among
his old friends and relatives,
shaking hands,
Thank you, thank you for coming.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/20/2002
Published: Nerve Cowboy 2002
I sort through my father’s closet
afterward,
his meager wardrobe,
he’d worn the same jacket for
as long as I could remember.
Wing-tips, shined daily,
fifty years old.
He stares from atop the bureau,
smiling, cradling infant me in his arms,
both of us framed in silver, and
I see myself in the mirror, the
spitting image of him.
The photograph seems
oddly, then, me with me.
I put on his Sunday suit, step into
his shoes, and go
down to greet the mourners.
My sister, in the kitchen,
drops her wine glass
when she sees me. I circulate
through the rooms, among
his old friends and relatives,
shaking hands,
Thank you, thank you for coming.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/20/2002
Published: Nerve Cowboy 2002
Friday, December 11, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The wind is howling outside the windows of my house tonight. It's a good, strong bluster, and the house shifts and creaks, settling it's bones for the winter. Muffled sound of a dog yipping a few blocks away, till someone lets it back inside. The comfortable warm hum of the furnace. Except for an unreasonably bad October, this is the first real Minnesota snow for the season. I'm secretly happy about it. It came down yesterday, just a few inches, covering the city in white, like a smooth cool sheet of paper, ready for a story. The wind swoops up and down through the houses in my neighborhood, gathers itself, and swoops again, blowing away the long autumn, tumultuous summer, unsettled spring; sweeping, sweeping clean.
Vegas Kitty is all stretched out and softly snoring on my pink flowered quilt, right where I would like to put my legs, but I don't want to disturb her slumber and cat dreams, and anyway, I find, I'm feeling pretty comfortable right where I am.
Vegas Kitty is all stretched out and softly snoring on my pink flowered quilt, right where I would like to put my legs, but I don't want to disturb her slumber and cat dreams, and anyway, I find, I'm feeling pretty comfortable right where I am.
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