I write because my mental real estate is limited. As thoughts accumulate they spill into the yard at this address like loose debris that chokes the grass unless routinely raked and bundled up to wait.
The curbside pickup trailer’s seldom late but long before the bags are out the gate I’m filling more while sorting through the mess I write, because…
without releasing space to allocate for flotsam overflowing from my pate, I’d hoard the weeds and lose the words to press between the folds where brainstorms coalesce with conscious clarity to contemplate.
Panoramic interactions filtered through the sound of struggle mingled with the scent of silence cast a shadow on the scene. Eyes and ears and mouth and fingers focus on the fellow feeling filling designated spaces all around and in between.
Swirling river bed’s aroma steeped in energetic flavors salted with a touch of kindness constitute a hearty paste. Add a pound of mountain cabin, mother’s kiss and robin’s whisper where a hint of moonlit forest shivers in the aftertaste.
Senses stir beyond the blend more than minds can comprehend.
I’d like you all to meet a fellow, wise and witty, warm and mellow. The story opens with the scene of how he finally “came clean.”
Now, he’s not one to self-promote but once I’d read the verse he wrote in service of poetic art, it struck a longing in my heart. I hollered till my throat was sore: “Please gimme, gimme, gimme more!” So sometimes when he’d write to me he’d dole one out reluctantly.
One day a note from him arrived that almost left me sore deprived throughout the week until I chanced to turn it over, where enhanced by simple words without fanfare a splendid poem rested there. I said, “Hey Buddy, what a feat, but next time don’t be so discreet.”
Well sure enough, as time went by, my uncle ceased to be so shy. Next time the designated spot was marked with arrows he had shot across the paper’s forward face as in humility and grace he’d fashioned letters bold and wide: “THEY BE A POME ON T’OTHER SIDE! —–>>>”
Written in tribute to my Uncle Buddy in the mid-1990s, when I learned to my surprise that some of the best poets of our time were related to me. I’m so glad I pestered them for their stories and poems before they died.
My dad and his little brother, having been raised to never toot their own horns, wrote for love. It was in corresponding with them through pre-Internet years that I subsequently discovered the joy of connecting with likeminded poets online.
(in the style of “Fire and Ice”, with apologies to Frost)
While some are satisfied with rice, however bland, I much prefer to pay the price for hearty fare that’s basted twice to blend a tantalizing brand of seasonings that suit my taste; uniquely wrought, precisely planned tomato paste that’s fresh, not canned.
For when the pizza’s tossed by hand and not in haste, the cheese and pepperoni stand like sentries poised to spark demand. Ingredients don’t go to waste and every sharply honed device contributes to the flavor laced through every slice wherever placed.
A field of energy surrounds exhibit halls, artistic grounds where wisdom flows. A soft wind blows from Mexico to Greece. In joining hands around the globe to touch the Dalai Lama’s robe, the threads connect; hearts intersect at avenues to peace.
Emerging from the planet’s core, the whisper soon becomes a roar — a rising tide to cast aside suspicion, hate and fear. With absolute impunity, the world embraces unity when chaos ends. It all depends on everybody here.
Compassion for our brother’s plight must hold a candle through the night. All cannot rest while one’s oppressed. Conditions inhumane erode our fundamental soul. Each person fills a vital role; we’re called to be the change we see in dreams. Let kindness reign!
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