Disparate sources
Un-disjointed by you –
The common denominator
Umami
Ujjayi
States of higher being
Sizzling pan-fried hamburger
Time stops and you with it
Don’t be afraid
Let the universe hold you
I’ve got you, she says.
Let go.
You are the center from which infinitesimal spokes shoot out
But you are not the only one
Millions rotate through the atmosphere
Spun by One
Feel One thing at a time.
The tiny tasks we do throughout the day.
The minutiae that eat up our time, but bear no importance to our conscience.
Pulling back the polka-dot cardboard piece to open the window atop the tissue box.
Placing items in the corner of the bottom step to fill shelves upstairs later.
Milk in fridge.
Bags in plastic column to be pulled out as needed.
A picture frame smashing to the floor, its glass front smashing into tiny pieces.
One clear shard a tiny scimitar slicing the terracotta tile.
There is life to be lived, but the slivers must be vacuumed.
And then the hose sniffs the crumbs just around the corner,
the detritus tracked in from outside –
grass clippings and unidentifiable pieces of bark
or dried stalks from dead flowers.
Stop.
There is always a mess to be cleaned up.
But time is limited.
We must be sure not suck our precious moments into the vacuum canister, lost forever.
Basmati rice, saffron
Persimmon, metallic gold
Lotus flowers, tumeric
Paprika, paprikash, lentil soup.
Mango lassi for dinner on an open air veranda
Honey, ginger, Come closer, Naan
Fiery balanced by the sublime
Give a kid a bucket,
there’s no telling what he’ll do.
Bucket head, valiant helmet, Frankenstein’s twin.
Collector of pine cones, fancy purse.
Keeper of dreams and special things,
mudpie mixer, sandcastle constructor.
Fill it, empty it, and fill it again.
Knock it over and shrill with glee.
Bend the handle to breaking,
come back from the brink.
Much more alluring when empty,
Filled to capacity with nothing at all
and everything all at once.
A plaintive cry from the garage
You, me, a curve in the road
The whine of the turbo
The rush of air
The wah-wah-wah of some part of the suspension needing attention
The bing of left low beam failure
The ding of airbag malfunction
Hit the clear button and drop it into gear
The mechanic can wait until tomorrow
Tonight is for the sheer joy of driving
Good Morning my family
Do you think that this rain will bring flowers?
The lovely poem that my kindergartener brought home yesterday. More of a survey, really. She left a space for each family member to respond – except the three year-old “because she can’t write yet.”
God, I hope it brings flowers. And I hope you stay as lovely and sweet as you are right now. With your sense of wonder and hope and excitement.
Is it a bad omen that I keep thinking about this poem since I wrote about chainsaws? Or is it all the warnings I’ve since received? Do not fret; safety will be first, people!
by Robert Frost
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19976#sthash.6Fhe7JKp.dpuf
Secrets are only dangerous if you keep them.
Shameful until they are aired.
A counterintuitive twist of fate,
relinquishing them releases you from their grip.
But what of those that belong to the collective –
Not just yours to share.
Do you bind yourself to others in your freedom?
A guilty conscience from your gushing?
How does one get free when he is beholden to others?
There is beauty in agony.
The angle of the fading sun spotlighting horses on a hill
The absence of pain between excruciating contractions
The way the air is sucked out of the room as the ailing takes her last breath
The chances, possibilities
no reason to take risks,
Only a stasis that lured us into settling.
There is no proverbial gain without the pain.
Acute, clarifying, sharp —
We never want it, but would stay the same without it.
Chopping Potatoes 