The Daily Poem - Week 3
And another week of blitherings, slightly more blitherish this week, as it really was an exceptionally hectic week at work. It's really hard to write poetry when people are walking into your office asking you to join them on a call.
I got busted by our trainer, nice fellow, who walked in after I finished #7. I had to pretend I had allergies because there was no reasonable explanation for my watery eyes. Anyway, here's the weekly haul.
Not so much work on Artist's Way this week-- again, just no time. I'm doing what I can, but exercise takes priority over homework. Winter will be here soon enough, and I'm wallowing in the outdoors all I can. Today the weather is BEAUTIFUL. I shall bike later. Up to 1/2 mile on my morning swim (30+ laps); I'm starting to get back in shape a little.
Take care, all! Enjoy this lovely day!
WEEK 3:
======
1. Gift
The vase is too small, to start with
Slightly too narrow for the number of flowers
I'm trying to fit in there
Flowers and
These grassy strand things that came with the bouquet
And this seed-heavy grass stalk
Almost a flower, but not quite
But they came with the bouquet
And I am determined
I know enough to snip the ends off the cut flower stems
That much I know
My intention is to cut them to different heights
to make a pleasing arrangement
A feat I achieve by accidentally whacking off a flowering branch
when I was intending to trim away the leaves
Because, you know, they rot
Nevertheless the trimmed flower makes a striking footnote
when I poke it into the lower part of the bunch
I'm down to the two yellow bunches.
I break the stem on one of them trying to cram it in
(for the vase really is getting quite full)
but there are enough other flowers in there to hold it up
so I hope it will heal, or at least draw water for a time.
There. Done.
A beautiful bouquet sits on the living room table.
And it is beautiful.
This is the gift of flowers.
You really can't screw it up.
=====
2. Scent
The sage is blooming.
Its blue-green leaves are dwarfed by huge purple tendrils
Like fuzzy octopi
Come to land
Spreading its bracing scent upon the air.
I stop the bike and stoop to sniff--
Bees.
The flowers are crawling with bees.
Busy, they make their way up the blooming stalks
Walking over the tender shoots yet to emerge
Feasting on the flowers that have opened brilliant purple eyes.
It feels peaceful, right.
Gently, to not disturb plant or flower
I draw the stalk closer, inhale deeply the newborn fragrance.
There is room for us all.
=====
3. Unbroken
I almost put the book down.
I couldn't live one moment more in a world of such
Savagery, such hate
Sadistic torture with no purpose and no end.
Louis, our hero, forgave his abusers.
He underwent a transformation and put it behind him
Letting the past go so the torturer
would no longer appear before his eyes.
I remember the Rinpoche I met, one of only two
to come alive from the dungeons
after the Chinese overran Tibet.
His hands were crippled from too many beatings
Useless to him
But his aura was peaceful, joyful
"I forgive them," he said, and meant it.
I can't be so generous.
I have undergone no transformation.
I look at the needless misery,
the suffering of countless thousands
the unregarded pawns
who are terrified, tortured, killed--
all for the ambition of a few wicked men.
I do not want to see the abusers go free
which they did-- all too many of them--
Forgiven by our country in a few short years
because we needed Japan
to help stem the Red Tide.
Another made-up war by ambitious men
So much death and suffering
made meaningless by political expediency.
I cannot forgive the transgressors.
I want to hold them accountable for the deaths, the beatings
the psychological damage that left so many innocents
unfit for normal life.
I would have the hand that weilds the club
feel the smash against its own face.
I would have the torturer feel every stab of his abuse.
It is not a perfect world.
But it seems to me that those in power
make it a hell of a lot less perfect than it should be.
After the war, the citizens of the prison town
and helped the former prisoners of war to erect a memorial
honoring the dead on both sides.
Some of the former enemies becoming good friends.
This is what people do in times of peace.
Why can they not remember that during times of war?
=====
4. Absolute Fail
This hasn't been a poem kind of day.
I forgot about the early hour and missed my first meeting
But so did my team leader, so we had an emergency follow-up meeting
Then a problem with confusing information led to another emergency meeting
Then the project leader was teaching her boss our product which led to another meeting
Which was interrupted by our regularly scheduled emergency meeting
(which we have twice a week due to the ongoing state of emergency)
Which was followed by our regular team meeting
(which is usually canceled due to the ongoing state of emergency)
which was followed by the software download which is always an emergency.
So it hasn't been a poem type of day.
I will say
That I wish it were a poem type of day.
I would have vastly preferred it to be that way.
But nay.
So no ruddy poem today.
Touché!
======
5. Sisterhood
Slanting sun dazzled in streaks on the still-damp pavement
Beckoning.
Succumbing to the call
I biked home from work the long way round
Racking up 10 miles in the post-storm cool.
All along the way I passed
Kindred souls who'd also been tempted out
Walking dogs, walking babies,
Walking themselves--
Women.
Exercising.
I pedaled past a trim figure in a track shirt
Puffing along the trail with weights in each hand
Rosy cheeked, hair tied back
Looking like she could go for miles yet.
I dipped down the hill to follow the trail under the highway
and met her on the other side--
she had cut across the intersection.
We both laughed.
"I'm a lazy jogger," she called,
as I pumped away up the hill.
I didn't have time to tell her--
There is no such thing as a lazy jogger.
She has my admiration.
Down the big hill, toward the park,
I cruise through invigorating air
passing more dog walkers, more carriage pushers,
more women
out and about in droves.
I pass a woman with well-defined arms
walking two giant dogs.
There is no reason for her to notice me
Yet as I glide by she raises her fist in salute.
Soul sister!
I grin.
I feel it, too.
This evening is ours.
The cool, quiet corridors are
populated with representatives of the gentler sex.
We alone are out tonight
in our quiet numbers
in our quiet strength
Women
Enjoying the evening air.
=====
6. Forced
The dentist made me do it.
Forced me into this course.
For though the appointment took me out of work early
it abandoned me at the height of rush hour.
An hour of stopping, starting,
chugging along clogged merge lanes
Tensely watching the other cars
Move over highway in fitful spurts
Praying they'll stop in time, turn in time
not hit me.
Some people don't mind, they say.
For them it's not an ordeal--
they listen to music or plan or dream.
But I am temperamentally unfit
to bear an hour crawling along
creeping captive amid sluggish cells of steel
heat waves shimmering off the metal
fumes clogging my throat
for a trip that should be a 30-minute drive.
So I go West instead
Turn toward the shadow of the hills.
I am prepared: boots and stick in the car,
hiking clothes which I switched into after the dentist
My office clothes and purse hidden in bags of cloth
Willing any thieves to find the bundles uninteresting.
I strap on my hip-pack, water bottle inside
and a fistful of trail mix (for I won't arrive home until late).
Facing the westering sun, I head for the trail.
The asphalt gives way to packed earth
Sand crunches beneath my boots
It is hot, still-- dry
But soon the sun is masked
by the mountain's mighty shoulder.
I step into the eaves of the forest and it hits me--
a butterscotch wave from a ponderosa pine
Scent baked onto the air from the sweltering day
forming an aromatic cloud
an unseen divider between the world of Man and Nature
smacking me the face as if I had walked through a veil.
Startled,
Shock slaps a smile onto my face
Turns the busy evening into a delight.
Cares fall away as I stride into the cool shadows
of the welcoming woods.
I will not return until the crickets are loud
the bats are aflight
and the works of Man are but a tiny twinkle
far on the darkling plain.
=====
7. Ritual
First I arrive at my goal
wherever it may be:
The summit, the crest of a ridge
a rock overlooking the valley with a commanding view.
I have carried my water all that way
A necessary dead weight.
That is part of it, too:
The effort, a sacrifice
For I carry only what I need
and what I do next will make the return trip harder
Thirstier--
That is part of it, too.
One must pay a price to be heard.
I stand on the highest rock
and hoist the bottle high.
I turn in a slow arc,
Finding a point of beauty along the way
and pause there,
pouring a little of the water
carried up with such effort
onto the ground.
"For Rich," I say--
the quick wit, master of every trade,
helper in times of need.
"For George," I intone, as the water pours out
and thank him for his inspiration,
his courage, his leadership.
"For Mark" I tell the next point,
and recall the dear friend
the talented musician, the brave and humorous soul.
"For John" I say at last, and in the pattering drops
remeber his wisdom, his generosity,
his deep love of the craft.
They are gone from me now
Gone from this world
Three from cancer
One by his own hand
Four whose stories have ended here
But the ritual brings them back
For a moment
For the time it takes to pour
a dollop of water
onto the mountain's side.
I cap the bottle with reverance
stand in spiritual communion
before turning to make the slow descent.
My remaining water will not last the return journey
and that is right
It is best to endure a little pain
to honor those who were untimely lost.
The comfort inside outweighs the cost.
I got busted by our trainer, nice fellow, who walked in after I finished #7. I had to pretend I had allergies because there was no reasonable explanation for my watery eyes. Anyway, here's the weekly haul.
Not so much work on Artist's Way this week-- again, just no time. I'm doing what I can, but exercise takes priority over homework. Winter will be here soon enough, and I'm wallowing in the outdoors all I can. Today the weather is BEAUTIFUL. I shall bike later. Up to 1/2 mile on my morning swim (30+ laps); I'm starting to get back in shape a little.
Take care, all! Enjoy this lovely day!
WEEK 3:
======
1. Gift
The vase is too small, to start with
Slightly too narrow for the number of flowers
I'm trying to fit in there
Flowers and
These grassy strand things that came with the bouquet
And this seed-heavy grass stalk
Almost a flower, but not quite
But they came with the bouquet
And I am determined
I know enough to snip the ends off the cut flower stems
That much I know
My intention is to cut them to different heights
to make a pleasing arrangement
A feat I achieve by accidentally whacking off a flowering branch
when I was intending to trim away the leaves
Because, you know, they rot
Nevertheless the trimmed flower makes a striking footnote
when I poke it into the lower part of the bunch
I'm down to the two yellow bunches.
I break the stem on one of them trying to cram it in
(for the vase really is getting quite full)
but there are enough other flowers in there to hold it up
so I hope it will heal, or at least draw water for a time.
There. Done.
A beautiful bouquet sits on the living room table.
And it is beautiful.
This is the gift of flowers.
You really can't screw it up.
=====
2. Scent
The sage is blooming.
Its blue-green leaves are dwarfed by huge purple tendrils
Like fuzzy octopi
Come to land
Spreading its bracing scent upon the air.
I stop the bike and stoop to sniff--
Bees.
The flowers are crawling with bees.
Busy, they make their way up the blooming stalks
Walking over the tender shoots yet to emerge
Feasting on the flowers that have opened brilliant purple eyes.
It feels peaceful, right.
Gently, to not disturb plant or flower
I draw the stalk closer, inhale deeply the newborn fragrance.
There is room for us all.
=====
3. Unbroken
I almost put the book down.
I couldn't live one moment more in a world of such
Savagery, such hate
Sadistic torture with no purpose and no end.
Louis, our hero, forgave his abusers.
He underwent a transformation and put it behind him
Letting the past go so the torturer
would no longer appear before his eyes.
I remember the Rinpoche I met, one of only two
to come alive from the dungeons
after the Chinese overran Tibet.
His hands were crippled from too many beatings
Useless to him
But his aura was peaceful, joyful
"I forgive them," he said, and meant it.
I can't be so generous.
I have undergone no transformation.
I look at the needless misery,
the suffering of countless thousands
the unregarded pawns
who are terrified, tortured, killed--
all for the ambition of a few wicked men.
I do not want to see the abusers go free
which they did-- all too many of them--
Forgiven by our country in a few short years
because we needed Japan
to help stem the Red Tide.
Another made-up war by ambitious men
So much death and suffering
made meaningless by political expediency.
I cannot forgive the transgressors.
I want to hold them accountable for the deaths, the beatings
the psychological damage that left so many innocents
unfit for normal life.
I would have the hand that weilds the club
feel the smash against its own face.
I would have the torturer feel every stab of his abuse.
It is not a perfect world.
But it seems to me that those in power
make it a hell of a lot less perfect than it should be.
After the war, the citizens of the prison town
and helped the former prisoners of war to erect a memorial
honoring the dead on both sides.
Some of the former enemies becoming good friends.
This is what people do in times of peace.
Why can they not remember that during times of war?
=====
4. Absolute Fail
This hasn't been a poem kind of day.
I forgot about the early hour and missed my first meeting
But so did my team leader, so we had an emergency follow-up meeting
Then a problem with confusing information led to another emergency meeting
Then the project leader was teaching her boss our product which led to another meeting
Which was interrupted by our regularly scheduled emergency meeting
(which we have twice a week due to the ongoing state of emergency)
Which was followed by our regular team meeting
(which is usually canceled due to the ongoing state of emergency)
which was followed by the software download which is always an emergency.
So it hasn't been a poem type of day.
I will say
That I wish it were a poem type of day.
I would have vastly preferred it to be that way.
But nay.
So no ruddy poem today.
Touché!
======
5. Sisterhood
Slanting sun dazzled in streaks on the still-damp pavement
Beckoning.
Succumbing to the call
I biked home from work the long way round
Racking up 10 miles in the post-storm cool.
All along the way I passed
Kindred souls who'd also been tempted out
Walking dogs, walking babies,
Walking themselves--
Women.
Exercising.
I pedaled past a trim figure in a track shirt
Puffing along the trail with weights in each hand
Rosy cheeked, hair tied back
Looking like she could go for miles yet.
I dipped down the hill to follow the trail under the highway
and met her on the other side--
she had cut across the intersection.
We both laughed.
"I'm a lazy jogger," she called,
as I pumped away up the hill.
I didn't have time to tell her--
There is no such thing as a lazy jogger.
She has my admiration.
Down the big hill, toward the park,
I cruise through invigorating air
passing more dog walkers, more carriage pushers,
more women
out and about in droves.
I pass a woman with well-defined arms
walking two giant dogs.
There is no reason for her to notice me
Yet as I glide by she raises her fist in salute.
Soul sister!
I grin.
I feel it, too.
This evening is ours.
The cool, quiet corridors are
populated with representatives of the gentler sex.
We alone are out tonight
in our quiet numbers
in our quiet strength
Women
Enjoying the evening air.
=====
6. Forced
The dentist made me do it.
Forced me into this course.
For though the appointment took me out of work early
it abandoned me at the height of rush hour.
An hour of stopping, starting,
chugging along clogged merge lanes
Tensely watching the other cars
Move over highway in fitful spurts
Praying they'll stop in time, turn in time
not hit me.
Some people don't mind, they say.
For them it's not an ordeal--
they listen to music or plan or dream.
But I am temperamentally unfit
to bear an hour crawling along
creeping captive amid sluggish cells of steel
heat waves shimmering off the metal
fumes clogging my throat
for a trip that should be a 30-minute drive.
So I go West instead
Turn toward the shadow of the hills.
I am prepared: boots and stick in the car,
hiking clothes which I switched into after the dentist
My office clothes and purse hidden in bags of cloth
Willing any thieves to find the bundles uninteresting.
I strap on my hip-pack, water bottle inside
and a fistful of trail mix (for I won't arrive home until late).
Facing the westering sun, I head for the trail.
The asphalt gives way to packed earth
Sand crunches beneath my boots
It is hot, still-- dry
But soon the sun is masked
by the mountain's mighty shoulder.
I step into the eaves of the forest and it hits me--
a butterscotch wave from a ponderosa pine
Scent baked onto the air from the sweltering day
forming an aromatic cloud
an unseen divider between the world of Man and Nature
smacking me the face as if I had walked through a veil.
Startled,
Shock slaps a smile onto my face
Turns the busy evening into a delight.
Cares fall away as I stride into the cool shadows
of the welcoming woods.
I will not return until the crickets are loud
the bats are aflight
and the works of Man are but a tiny twinkle
far on the darkling plain.
=====
7. Ritual
First I arrive at my goal
wherever it may be:
The summit, the crest of a ridge
a rock overlooking the valley with a commanding view.
I have carried my water all that way
A necessary dead weight.
That is part of it, too:
The effort, a sacrifice
For I carry only what I need
and what I do next will make the return trip harder
Thirstier--
That is part of it, too.
One must pay a price to be heard.
I stand on the highest rock
and hoist the bottle high.
I turn in a slow arc,
Finding a point of beauty along the way
and pause there,
pouring a little of the water
carried up with such effort
onto the ground.
"For Rich," I say--
the quick wit, master of every trade,
helper in times of need.
"For George," I intone, as the water pours out
and thank him for his inspiration,
his courage, his leadership.
"For Mark" I tell the next point,
and recall the dear friend
the talented musician, the brave and humorous soul.
"For John" I say at last, and in the pattering drops
remeber his wisdom, his generosity,
his deep love of the craft.
They are gone from me now
Gone from this world
Three from cancer
One by his own hand
Four whose stories have ended here
But the ritual brings them back
For a moment
For the time it takes to pour
a dollop of water
onto the mountain's side.
I cap the bottle with reverance
stand in spiritual communion
before turning to make the slow descent.
My remaining water will not last the return journey
and that is right
It is best to endure a little pain
to honor those who were untimely lost.
The comfort inside outweighs the cost.