How self-centered we are
to be governed by our emotions
and not the looks of pain on the faces of those around us.
To expect the world to orbit around our center.
The way we act shows it a thoughtless given in our minds.
To miss the fragile little being in front of us,
the industrious, frenzied flap of hummingbird wings –
the little things that should be front and center
so as not to be crowded out by the hulking beasts oh so eager to rule.
photo: Jennifer Butler Basile
The sunset draws me in.
It pulls me west,
to the continuation of life, light.
If I move toward it,
if I suck the gloaming dry of its marrow,
I gain that much more
hope
possibility
potential.
The day is not yet done.
Tea leaves swirling
Pulling to the middle,
metal flakes drawn magnetically
Center spinning,
growing,
with each revolution
gathering more to its core
Mesmerizing
Mind numbing
Eye opening
Poetry recitals, preschool sing-a-longs,
spring picnics, slumber parties, school vacation,
First Communions, community events, social commitments.
With so much fun to be had,
how can one have any fun at all?
Just looking at the list wears me out –
and I haven’t even thought of doing the laundry yet.
Good thing the laundry looks happy – because he’s going to be there for awhile.
Tart and sweet,
warmth running down my middle.
The cricket click of a processor.
The whine of refrigeration.
The wave of radiation shimmering in the shadow box of mullions.
No matter where I am, I can find the glow of the sun.
It and I travel all over, and yet, connect –
if I look, if I feel, if I stop to soak it in.
Sometimes the grandest thing to be done
is to do nothing but soak in the sun.
Free App: Poetry from the Poetry Foundation.
It’s National Poetry Month. Woo Hoo! Hang sonnets from the sashes and couplets from the cupolas. Let a ballad be your banner flapping in the brisk April breeze.
I would join in your revelry and pen my own poetic masterpiece, alas, I got distracted playing with this fabulous app. It doesn’t have flappy fins or diced fruit, but you can spin TWO wheels and garner a fortune of carefully crafted verse. It is a goldmine for logophiles like me, for it brings merit to the world of technophilia.
Which brings me to the book I just finished reading (and shows just how distracted I am today): Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan. Though at times in the plot there are contentious arguments about the merits of print vs. technology, Sloan, for the most part, has created a loving universe where both coexist in meaningful and appreciative ways. The last lines, though, do give a good ol’ what what to my beloved book:
May you always find exactly the right book, at exactly the right time. And may the spinning poetry wheel of fortune be ever in your favor. Happy reading!
Kenneth Josephson, Chicago (blurred book pages) 1988
** Big shout-out to iGameMom for tipping me off to this app!
I want definition.
I want nice, neat little boxes.
If not black and white, then broad black borders to contain the colors within.
Classification. Order.
I don’t want things to merge, to blend, to intermingle.
I want to draw a line between thoughts and feelings.
I want to shut off that part of me responsible for irrational.
I don’t want to be able just to identify it, but send it packing.
There’s a difference between knowing and feeling.
I can know it all I want. I have to be able to feel it.
A rivulet of water running off the splash block
cutting an eddy through the sand and shell shards
pebbles and pickings from the beach
that landed on my driveway
months after the pluck
only after ice storms,
freeze and thaw,
cracked the plastic pail they called home.
The terrarium my kids toted home,
a miniature tidal pool,
silica and shale, pebbled granite,
remnants of the ice age released yet again,
eons later
by the elements
only to dribble down my driveway
into the gutter.
Some mechanical hum
the lonesome wail of a railway train
the cyclical sound of rain on window
The acrid smell of heat coming up
The warmth
as it soaks through my sweater
spreading from limb to limb
An upside down paint-by-number
with a hidden smiley face
Drink from that spring-fed well
that defies gravity
And go about your day
My head keeps butting up against expectation
No amount of plying with my pronged horns can make it go away
Some holes poked, but never enough to tear the fabric,
to crumble the wall,
topple the tower
I can peep through the hole, see the happy people on the other side
Those who can see their blessings
who are pleasantly surprised by the unexpected
those overwhelmed by the ordinary, everyday miracle
Setting the bar is fine
but those who only try to go over
are always left in limbo
Chopping Potatoes 