He paced the glassy surface of new poured sea
wringing his sculptor's hands in celestial anxiety.
A nagging tug, a vexing doubt
about creation, something about creation,
something obvious and overlooked,
the one loose thread
to unravel slowly down the eons....
are circumspect and clean, so clean
God forbid the ideas should touch one another
Or leak onto the plot next door
Which might accidentally create some
new upstart idea, something
Unclassifiable and awkward
Requiring a hazmat team to extract....
For fertility of ideas
multifamily structure is best
Stack em up
like floors in a highrise
Skyscrapers of boxes on a dock
rickety, shabbily
Zagging every which way
expanding in various directions
In danger of falling over
Askew. Like community garden patches,
Overgrown, seeding their neighbors
plots with something untoward and interesting....
--- Mad Mar (Mistryel) Walker
If you have perennials, biennials,
things that seed themselves
and return to you in odd moments,
sprout anew after a while of dying back
-- then you can't indiscriminately
pull up unknown sprouts in the name of neatness.
Be patient.
Study the situation.
Is it a weed or a daisy in waiting?
or Queen Anne's Lace
or the wee tip of fern
about to uncurl?
The essential trick?
Never uproot a thing
that will, sometime later,
fill you with the earnest, wild
energy of delight
& make you glad you are alive...
--- Mad Mar (Mistryel) Walker
I’m just a sullen moth
flinging myself at the porch light,
always speculating,
splitting hairs,
asking myself why.
Is it the light?
Or the warmth?
Or the stillness of the
dried bugs inside the fixture
with that almighty bulb….
very still, but not "one" with the light
as their papery wings become dust….
#poem #mortality #metaphor
originally posted May 1, 2024. Seems worth another go....
NO RESTAURANT LIKE HOME
Whole wheat and rolled oats with flax,
golden in the hot pan
cook one side then add to the top:
Red red raspberries, crunchy chopped walnuts.
Add remaining batter on top. Wait.
Wait some more. Flip. Wait. Then Flip some more.
When you think it might finally be cooked inside
Cut it in half and look. Make sure!
Get out the maple stuff.
Pour the coffee.
Be grateful.
Know how improbably lucky it is to have a meal at all.
- Mad Mar Mistryel Walker
I don't remember how I got there
or why I was flying a plane over a road
a big plane, an airliner kind of plane
.
and I was just noticing how low to the ground we were
Noticing the telephone polls below, cars busy on the road,
treetops brushing the plane's belly, a hillside in the distance.
.
I was thinking why is the plane flying so low,
moving so blindingly fast, and why am I the pilot?
And someone was screaming at me
.
Pull up Mar Pull up now!!! as the ground got closer.
I woke up right then shaking. Not sure why I was flying
or where I was going, or who left me in charge, or
.
if I had changed course or crashed in the ether of the dream.
But it was time to get up time to get up out of bed
and into the new day. So I did.
"I need to get into the attic"
the AC tech said matter of factly
.
"Not sure you can get there from here"
I said. As he darted out to his truck
.
I opened the hall closet
empty but for its pile of boxes,
.
Pushed up on the hat shelf,
found it folded back easily.
.
Pushed up on the cloths pole,
found that popped right out of its caps.
.
as I slide box after box out and into the hall
here comes Mr tech with his folding ladder
.
He props, climbs, pushes up the lid
and disappears. "Nice Space up here" he says
.
from out of sight, and a sudden light
shines through the square opening.
.
I have to see, I climb up the ladder, look around
suddenly I;m sitting on the edge of the unfamiliar
.
it's totally clean and empty, but for fiberglass bats
I make mental notes, location of the light switch
.
Kinda odd how you can live for years unaware
under this unknown, unimagined spaciousness...
.
.
I am not listening to the priest
not looking towards the altar.
Not saying the words.
I stand up, sit down
when told, but no
song no words come forth at all,
no call and response.
I listen to the resonant soprano singing,
the echo of it in the empty space above.
I look sidelong, avoid the casket in the center isle
hidden under a white cloth and a symbol
that means nothing to me now.
I try to look right through the
vivid stained glass scenes.
I notice the intense blue
red, green, not the figures
or the stories they portray.
I wish instead I could see the sky
or a river, the sea or a mountain
a tree bright in the daylight
beyond those windows.
Or you on the lake in your sail boat
with your boys, family, friends
and your ready nonchalant smile.
No endings, dead or otherwiseReplyDelete
are permitted in this poem
this is a living cascade
it will not stop this day
or any day to come
this life will
go on with or without me
with or without another poem
the little one celled things
will stretch and divide
and the little wavy armed things
will reach out and grab a meal
somewhere in the miniature
a future of spinning orbs
until a black hole grabs
it all, and then who knows
what happens in there?
Boxes neatly packed
stacked in closets
under tables
stowed in odd spots
boxes unlabeled but for
a single word: Mom.
.
I packed them last year
numb not knowing
what to do
I packed for days, hid
this and that away
carefully wrapped,
and now
.
I wonder
what memories hide
in each, if I look....
maybe not right now.
Remove a little here
scoop out some more
deep enough to accentuate,
to undercut, the line of something or other.
Smooth the center, or rough it wildly up.
Remove more, take off the edge itself
so the world curves into concavity.
Take away the center.
See clear through
to the other side.
Everyone knows
love and anti-love
cannot coexist
in the same space
as they readily ironically
annihilate each other.
The scale
like history
repeats itself
damn it.
Old shoelaces unravel
unruly as love
as likely to trip you.
Untied, each lace dances
frayed and flaccid
reluctant to knot again.
.
Velcro closures lock
and cling too willing to grip
but Velcro can't let go
There's rip and uproar
when suddenly undone.
.
Old loafers are the best.
So easy to slip
in or out of at a
moment's whim, they
shelter your pennies
never ask for socks.
Human beings
require a certain stability. Therefore
it would be best if the constellations
held steady on, not wobbling about
or shooting off into another paradigm
skipping into another multiverse
or tripping oversubtle event horizons
lurking at every bend of light waving,
or every twist of history's winking
or twinkling. Yes, to remain
would be best so always
use starch when laundering
an inhabited universe.
