Friday, April 20, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Day 20: Ahamkara Can Only Be Seen From a Hammock
Ahamkara can only be seen from a hammock
in its crystal beauty, nuzzling the neck of ananda
the sky is blue above me
the leaves are green around me
the earth is brown beneath me
ahamkara, the colorless cloud within me
nuzzling the neck of ananda
Let's line the land in hammocks!
one for all, the homeless and the homed no more,
but the hammocked, and therefore
the quiet reflectors
nuzzling the neck of ananda!
in its crystal beauty, nuzzling the neck of ananda
the sky is blue above me
the leaves are green around me
the earth is brown beneath me
ahamkara, the colorless cloud within me
nuzzling the neck of ananda
Let's line the land in hammocks!
one for all, the homeless and the homed no more,
but the hammocked, and therefore
the quiet reflectors
nuzzling the neck of ananda!
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Day 18: M&M
I used to think it was her niece
or her long lost daughter
Every book was dedicated to her, and every book was filled with beauty and passion.
How did she do that book after book?
Will I ever mean as much to anyone?
No. I won't. I am 46 now and will never mean as much to anyone.
No one will ever dedicate 20 books of poetry to me.
I think I would be more embarrassed if they did than knowing they never will.
Thank you for not dedicating 20 books of poetry to me.
But if you would like to do something special for my birthday-
she was a lover of beauty, and the woman on the dedication page was her love-
Open a book and read a poem for me. We can all be lovers of beauty, even when we don't feel so beautiful. We can all rememeber the way it feels to write someone's name on a page. It can feel so beautiful. Write my name and see how it feels. Then erase it and write the name of the one you love. Then go on with your day.
Her love has died. The last book was dedicated to someone else. Maybe her niece. Maybe her long lost daughter.
or her long lost daughter
Every book was dedicated to her, and every book was filled with beauty and passion.
How did she do that book after book?
Will I ever mean as much to anyone?
No. I won't. I am 46 now and will never mean as much to anyone.
No one will ever dedicate 20 books of poetry to me.
I think I would be more embarrassed if they did than knowing they never will.
Thank you for not dedicating 20 books of poetry to me.
But if you would like to do something special for my birthday-
she was a lover of beauty, and the woman on the dedication page was her love-
Open a book and read a poem for me. We can all be lovers of beauty, even when we don't feel so beautiful. We can all rememeber the way it feels to write someone's name on a page. It can feel so beautiful. Write my name and see how it feels. Then erase it and write the name of the one you love. Then go on with your day.
Her love has died. The last book was dedicated to someone else. Maybe her niece. Maybe her long lost daughter.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Day 17: More From Home
I think it was the time when all we had to eat was Krusteaz Just Add Water Cookie Mix that we were intoduced to Addy, the American Girl born to slaves in the south. We read of her adventures all day long between cookies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Our adventure was quite different: to survive on cookies until pay day. We did survive. And we read the book in one day. I was going to return it the next, but Addy was now part of our story. And wasn't she always?
Grandma bought you ballet lessons on the hill. Those skinny blonde girls didn't like your kinky red hair and terra cotta skin. They didn't like that you were good and impressed the teacher. (As I recall, the teacher didn't like it either.)But you were good, and you were pretty, and you didn't stop smiling and neither did I. That was about the time we ate cookies until pay day. That was the time of my life.
Grandma bought you ballet lessons on the hill. Those skinny blonde girls didn't like your kinky red hair and terra cotta skin. They didn't like that you were good and impressed the teacher. (As I recall, the teacher didn't like it either.)But you were good, and you were pretty, and you didn't stop smiling and neither did I. That was about the time we ate cookies until pay day. That was the time of my life.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Day 16: Who Are You After the Guests Have Gone Home?
"Who are you after the guests have gone home?" SARK, from Succulent, Wild Woman
I would like to host an interview party. Serve dinner, read poems, then during dessert play back the interviews taken during appetizers.
I want to know why the priest came here from Poland. I want to know why the man kept playing baseball games no one ever came to see. I want to know why you broke up with your last love. I want someone to ask me how old I was when they started worrying about my head getting too big, and when I first did that dirty word, shut up. How old were you when you shut up? And when you opened again, did you cry? What do you do when the guests have gone home? Clean up? Sit back? Drink? Eat the rest of the cake? Maybe this is the question I will ask you, and we will all sit around and hear the answers together. I will call this project "Interviewing Angels". We would recognize each other and applaud at the end.
I would like to host an interview party. Serve dinner, read poems, then during dessert play back the interviews taken during appetizers.
I want to know why the priest came here from Poland. I want to know why the man kept playing baseball games no one ever came to see. I want to know why you broke up with your last love. I want someone to ask me how old I was when they started worrying about my head getting too big, and when I first did that dirty word, shut up. How old were you when you shut up? And when you opened again, did you cry? What do you do when the guests have gone home? Clean up? Sit back? Drink? Eat the rest of the cake? Maybe this is the question I will ask you, and we will all sit around and hear the answers together. I will call this project "Interviewing Angels". We would recognize each other and applaud at the end.
Day 15: The Little Roll Top Desk
I would stare into the gap between the desk and my bed. Sometimes that was how I got to sleep. Sometimes I woke up there, contorted, fallen in. It was small and brown, and I had my own drawer, which made a chalky sound when I opened it, and the top would screetch like bad brakes. tuff got crammed in there.
I don't remember if there was a chair. There isn't anymore. The chair has died.
The desk had a smell, too, like pennies and broken pencils with no leds.
Maybe they got rid of the chair so I wouldn't bump my head when I fell out of bed.
They loved me. The desk heard the prayers we recited every night. It watched as he kissed us and she sorted laundry.
What did she sit on when she sorted laundry?
Laundry was often found jammed under the rolled top. A sock, my plans, another sock. I had lots of plans, all of them homes. The desk is the last piece of furniture left from the old house.
No chair has made it as far.
It sits in the hall which leads to empty rooms. It is too small for anywhere else. Fifteen yeras ago, I needed a pencil. I opened my drawer, and there was no sound, no smell, no pencil. Just a roll of wallpaper border, ugly stuff. I wonder if they have been looking for it. I never opened that drawer again. I don't think anyone has. Mostly I don't think about that little desk, but I am tonight. I still have plans. They still keep me up at night. I still fall into cracks.
I don't remember if there was a chair. There isn't anymore. The chair has died.
The desk had a smell, too, like pennies and broken pencils with no leds.
Maybe they got rid of the chair so I wouldn't bump my head when I fell out of bed.
They loved me. The desk heard the prayers we recited every night. It watched as he kissed us and she sorted laundry.
What did she sit on when she sorted laundry?
Laundry was often found jammed under the rolled top. A sock, my plans, another sock. I had lots of plans, all of them homes. The desk is the last piece of furniture left from the old house.
No chair has made it as far.
It sits in the hall which leads to empty rooms. It is too small for anywhere else. Fifteen yeras ago, I needed a pencil. I opened my drawer, and there was no sound, no smell, no pencil. Just a roll of wallpaper border, ugly stuff. I wonder if they have been looking for it. I never opened that drawer again. I don't think anyone has. Mostly I don't think about that little desk, but I am tonight. I still have plans. They still keep me up at night. I still fall into cracks.
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