Thursday, March 26, 2009

The World Is Filled with Angry Men




Unabomber Guys

I'm so tired of disappointed men
who sit in cabins pecking
invectives on archaic Underwoods.

Don't even think of knocking
on a Unabomber's door, offering
tuna casserole or chicken pot pie.

These guys feed on themselves.
They love their own thin blood
and overactive spleen,

and they have no qualms about
sticking a stamp, even a pretty one,
yellow roses or steamboats,

to a letter bomb,
blow up you or me
or plain old "occupant" by accident.

Hey, to a Unabomber guy
we're black type, white space, 
a flat sheet of onionskin,

and with their little metal fists,
they pound, pound,
pound in the dim light. 

Friday, March 20, 2009

Looking down on clouds

A trip is always a great opportunity for re-viewing yourself, your world.  Yesterday, flying to Seattle, that was a simple pleasure:  looking down on clouds. 

 Of course it is a three-part metaphor:  rising above, looking down, and then going through clouds to get back to earth.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

When does a trip begin?

Seriously.  When?  When you make the plane reservations, start planning, begin to think about not being where you are?  Does a trip begin when you back out of the driveway, hit the city limits, or when you land on the tarmack at Seatac?

Does it begin when you get there?  And where, exactly, does "there" begin?

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

What Eb Tanner said to Joe Kinney ca. l897

St. Patrick's Day often makes me think  about my grandfather, Joe Kinney, a railroad man of German and Irish descent, and what was said by my great grandfather, Eb Tanner, a Mormon patriarch and dry farmer in southern Utah, when Joe and eighteen-year old Itha, Eb's oldest girl,  appeared at the family home after eloping the night before:  "Joe I couldn't feel worse if you took my best horse."

Whenever my mother tells me this story, she always adds, "Grandpa Tanner loved his horses."

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Wearin' o' the Green

When I called my ninety-three year old mother at the assisted-living facility when she has lived since last August, she was in her room stapling together one-dollar bills.  "I don't have anything green to wear," she said, "so I'm making a necklace from my bingo winnings to wear at lunch."


Monday, March 16, 2009

What I am reading

at night:  War and Peace

in the daytime:  Nothing to Be Frightened Of  by Julian Barnes

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Morning mourning

reflecting past worries regrets

a moody response

to

We Are All Bi-Polar, cont.



Doppleganger

I am sleepy and disappointed in myself.
Goodnight.

The blanks between these words
are thoughts and memories.

I said "blanks," but I meant "blankets."
The space between is me, a lump
in the bedding seen by the man 
standing in the doorway.

I said "lump," as in "like it or lump it,"
but that lump in the bed isn't really me.

I climbed out the window, down the ladder,
across the lawn, into the waiting car.

Friday, March 13, 2009

We Are All Bi-Polar



We Are All Bi-Polar

I stand on her porch,
knock, try the doorbell,
walk down the driveway,
check the back door,
jiggle the knob,
shield my eyes,
put my face to the glass,
peer inside.

Who looks back?
My reflection?
No, it's her.

She pretends not to see me,
hides in the furthest room
waits for me to leave.

What does she fear?
I'll sell her something?
I'm running for office?
My house is on fire and
I desperately need her?

It's like that--
outside myself,
trying to get back in.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Time Change

Your Life  Passes

Your life passes
before your eyes
behind  your back.

Your life passes,
like the guy says,
while on your way
somewhere else.

Your life passes
as you grasp at straws,
arrange chairs
on sinking ships.

Your life passes
regardless of time zones
or metronomes.

And the insidious ticking
of your days
marks wasted time
and useless ways.



Tuesday, March 10, 2009

It's easier to quit smoking than to give up a grudge


The Resentments You Carry

You face an elevator
holding your resentments, 
grudges packed tightly,
angers folded neatly.

You put down the baggage,
press the button.
When the door slides open,
you step inside.

"I'm free," you say
as you speed up or down.
You think you know 
what floor you're on.

You lie, of course.

You feel the resentments
even closer to you,
next to your heart,
near where you breathe.

Monday, March 9, 2009

A poem for the times


Foreclosure:  Your Life Is Scattered on the Lawn

Carrying a well-packed
U-Haul box to the car,
you trip over the hose,
fall flat and hard, arms out, 
as if to thrust a desperate gift
 on anybody passing by. 

The street is empty.
No one walks a dog,
rides past on a bike.
No one stoops to help.

Your life is scattered on the lawn
in the gutter.
Your photos blow away from you.

You look at the contents
spilled from the box
important only an hour ago
and cry and cry
for your life and your stuff.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Your Frontal Lobe Forces You to Think Ahead

Thinking about the coming week, rummaging around to find the right attitude, as if it were an accessory in a jumbled jewelry box.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Rumination: 7:00 a.m.

Self Image

I recently read an admonition against mirrors.  Perhaps it is masochistic, staggering into the bathroom, peering  into the mirror, as I begin the morning's ablutions.

"You're only as old as you think you are."  I guess that's  true.   How  would I see myself if I couldn't?

Friday, March 6, 2009

Keeping Your Word


All my life, he said, I been witness to people showin' up where they was supposed to be at various times after they'd said they'd be there.  I never heard one yet that didn't have a reason for it.

Yessir

You know what it is?

No sir.

It's that their word's no good.  That's the only reason there ever was or ever will be.

Yessir.

from The Crossing by Cormac McCarthy



My father had a saying that amounts to the same thing:  "There's no such thing as a good excuse."

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Another Great Woman


"Compassion directed to oneself is humility."

Simone Weil, First and Last Notebooks

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

That Julia Child, What a Gal...

Q.  When the well has run dry, how do you recharge your creative spark?

A.  I don't believe in any romantic blah-blah about inspiration.  Creativity comes from preparation and concentration.  So have a good meal, good night's sleep, and get to work!

Julia Child

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

from the passenger's side

Don't you love signs that have more than one meaning?   This one caught my attention yesterday:

EVERYTHING MUST GO!

Monday, March 2, 2009

Sunday, March 1, 2009

All About My Mother

She is old.   That's the truth of it.  She's more old than anything else and that's a condition, not a character issue.