how do we let be? let people like streams take their courses.
let the rapids rush and still like the whites of eyes that flicker and then resolve themselves into dark pupils. But they are not our pupils.
how do we stay afloat in our own little bark? (by bark, I mean a boat.)
let it be full of good food, this boat—let us give loaves not just to the fishes— stick some songs in the aft, maybe squeeze in a whole piano, smiles for ballast—
do not forget to carry on the breath. hold to that zephyr like words that don’t need to be loosed into the wind– not everything needs an explanation—
oh, let the breath just go and then come again, softly—
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Here’s a little draft poem for December. Sorry to have been so absent. My good news is that I have three new children’s books on Amazon. The pic above is from one of them–Lightly Going Things. Also now available is Green Truck Here, and Bug Cars.
When I think of thanks, I think of you and I think too of them—of her and her and her and him—
And all that blue that is the opposite of sky— that blue inside me that wails at times like a saxophone in the night (only it’s not just at night).
That hue that seems to blue my very bones, to make even my joints lonely— (How can a knee be forlorn? How can an elbow feel abandoned? They are joints! Per se connected!)
But if, in that dejection, I can think of thanks—even just the word— my mind is lured to you, to them, and all that is torn is joined anew (roughly, but enough)— the knee bends, the arm extends— and that inner blue becomes lent sky, and everything shows itself to be a part of everything else— the trees, the stones, the tones of that saxophone, even what feels so lone—sky inside and out, sky all about.
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Here’s kind of a draft poem that has been on my mind. Of course, it is an adult poem, and the drawing is a children’s drawing–an illustration from my picture book Lightly Going Things, but I liked the ebullience of the pic. (And of course the elephants!) That picture book is soon to be available on Amazon, with others of mine.
I wake in the moonlight, things to do, they mainly consist of missing you— you who we were when we were young, I who we were when we were one.
We could be one with three or four, children clinging to the core, arms around, stories read, squeezed into a squishy bed.
We’re not a single memory, but shifting slides of clarity— now, I’m the child, now I’m the mother, now I’m the gathered, now, the lover.
I go outside to see the moon, bright bowl of a no-handled spoon— You cannot hold it, but still can taste the orbit’s grace, the shine, the trace.
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Kind of a ditty for today!Just to be clear, about past year rather than any particular person! Mainly I was thinking of my kids when young, and my grandmothers, whom I hope to emulate.
This is an old drawing—a bit too witchy for the poem, but the one that most fit that I could find!
So many miracles. The moon, pre-dawn, a soft red ball smiling with shine We held each other earlier. I did not actually hurt my back in yesterday’s fall. Someone has carved or eaten a filigree of life in a rim of wood that lays upon the driveway; its mosaic playing with the tracks of tires.
There is a fire within each of us, you can see it in the eyes. Infants have it in abundance, so serious as they contemplate a first sweet potato, or hug a kid, meaning a baby goat, at some small farm, and the little goat, somehow grasping that it is another baby who has grasped it, doesn’t (seemingly) complain, at least, doesn’t bite— all of this completely true.
And now the sky is pale with not-yet-blue, and our dark horizon has shine all over it, a whole dome of shine. How does the world manage it?
“Humility” a word that comes to mind, a lesson for the day, a shine to strive for. But how do you strive for humility? Maybe just take note.
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A sort of poem for this morning, the last full lunar eclipse until 2025. Also, election day in the U.S. Do vote. So much is on the line—women’s rights, human rights, voting rights, environmental protection.
“But you love chili,” she moaned. But his lips pressed tightly against it, even after she had liquified it to a coral slop— and, no, it was not because she’d liquified it to a coral slop.
We tried all the old favorites— apple sauce, tomato soup, rye toast with a poached egg, whatever flavors of Ensure were stacked against the wall, the chocolate Boost,
foods that were like old tunes, melodies he knew. But he would not sing along, could not, his body on its own fork in the long road of disease.
He had a gravely voice, even when young. I think of the froggy who went a’courting in a big blue book when I was little; the green frog outlined in black, a little tied sack at his back, a sack on a stick.
She did not say, “but you love me,” instead of “chili” or “tomato soup” or “applesauce.”
But that was a given; he said it all the time, how he loved her. Even as he died, he said it.
The body won’t always do what we want, won’t live until the other’s ready to go, won’t/can’t swallow.
Have you ever seen a bird hold hands as it flies? Two birds? Of course not.
But hands I have seen—hands joined and spread like wings—
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Very much a draft poem, but I like it; hope you do too. (All rights reserved as always.)
Vote vote vote. Women’s rights are on the ballot; women’s rights and human rights.
how did it get so cold—the darkness feels absolute, but it’s only dark enough to let the stars and moon both shine.
It’s not a matter of darkness anyway but clarity, the sky clear enough for pinpoints, clear enough for the blue arc of the moon to be seen in its small bright bowl.
Clear enough that I can make out the imagined paths between stars, the sketch of constellations whose names I’ve never been able to learn— but not so clear that I can see the stone steps right at my feet.
I bend to hold a concrete slab at their sides, then crouch down the stairs, a sideways crab, determined to get a broader view, and so glad, now as I write this, that I don’t always care how I look in this so beautiful world, that I don’t somehow mind the awkwardness of age, the steps one takes to hold on, the steps one is given, all those strange blessings.
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Happy Friday! The above drawing does not really go so well with this poem, but I like it! It was done in a wonderful drawing class, Inventory Drawing, with Peter Hristoff of School of Visual Arts. Sadly, the class is concluded now, but I urge you to check out SVA offerings in Continuing Ed (and other Ed) in future semesters as Peter will likely offer the class again.
When I tell you you’re a sweetie pie, you say that I’m the sweetest pie, and I can’t help but think of a Shoo Fly, made with brown sugar and vinegar, me who is so darting yet somehow insubstantial, sweet, sad, sour—
But for you, I think of a Moon, because of the spoon of your backside, also just because I like the name.
But a Moon Pie’s made with marshmallow, and there’s not much of the marshmallow in you— a soft heart, but what really comes to mind is a tree branch, because of the way the muscles line your shoulders, sides, the lean strength that bends, the way a branch is surprisingly green beneath the bark.
But what kind of pie is made with branches? The closest is a nest—
I think then of how you hold me at your chest, me, who is so mercurial, and how you would never even think of Shoo Fly— no, you’d never call that my pie.
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No offense meant to Shoofly Pie, or those who like it! Have a great day. (All rights reserved, as always.)
I am worried about the upcoming election. Women’s rights are on the line. Frankly, in many states, women have already lost the line.
But it could get worse (and will if the GOP takes over congress.)
Voting rights are on the line. Frankly, in many states, voters have already lost the ability to vote easily and to have their votes counted.
But it could get worse (and will if the GOP takes over congress.)
Yes, we are already despoiling the planet.
But it could get worse (and will if the GOP takes over congress.)
Yes, Putin has already acted on delusions of grandeur, and his soldiers have raped, tortured, and are currently bombing civilians. But his actions, and those of other dictators, could get much much worse.
And the GOP noticeably does not care about crimes against humanity, not if it raises the price of gas. Sadly, it seems as if many GOP politicians do not care much about crimes against humanity even they didn’t raise gas prices. (They seem to have a not-very-secret affection for dictators.)
What I have been doing—which has become almost mystical for me—is making small donations nearly every day (sometimes randomly repeated through the weeks) to Democratic candidates around the country. Each is a very small donation. Yet, I try always to carry through the thought, to bother.
If I think of someone in a pivotal race—Val Demmings against Marco Rubio; John Fetterman against Dr. Oz; Tim Ryan against J.D. Vance; Mark Kelly against Blake Masters—Beto O’Rourke, Stacy Abrams, Catharine Cortez Masto, Mandela Barnes, Evan McMullin—-the Democratic candidates here are all interesting and worthwhile–I try to make that little donation. I feel like even my small donations will generate a random positivity in their direction, while if I have the thought, but don’t follow through, I might contribute to the negative. (It might somehow contribute to the idea of other people not bothering–not even bothering to vote.)
I guess I am trying to work the “butterfly effect.” It’s the idea in chaos theory that one small change, one small action (the movement of the wings of a butterfly), can generate a big result.
My thought—that even my small efforts (the little donations, the carefully worded, if hopeless, emails to family members in red states)–could populate a tide.
Anyway—I put it out there. To think about politics right now is sickening, disheartening, but important. Do what you can.
***************** ps–Raphael Warnock is another to support!
Drawing above is mine–was supposed to start as a moth, but I drew a butterfly of sorts–again in Peter Hristoff’s wonderful “Inventory Drawing” class at SVA.
ManicDDaily 
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