The Dangers of a Bland Diet

There once was a man who ate naught but white food.
'The color' he claimed 'destroys my latitude.
With flavor and spice,
I can't enjoy my rice!'

So, without any thought of the 'morrow,
he omitted the green, red, and yellow.
The man of white food consumed
and never once became attuned.

But then came the day,
when he stumbled and swayed,
and with a great cry of terror,
he came to understand his error.

So take my advice,
enjoy more than just rice,
for else you might find yourself
just as he did himself:
The poor man's fingers and toes
had done near faded away!


This is inspired by a recent conversation and the asparagus (pronounced asp-per-grass) I enjoyed for dinner.  Some in my family detest it.  They don't know what they are missing.

in season

in spring

life, green

new opportunities

in summer

thunder and rain

sunshine, spontaneity

in fall

maturity, ripe harvest

dying

in winter

clean slate

waiting for a new tomorrow

Holes

there's a hole by the bedroom doorway,

one on the floor in front of the bathroom sinks.

twin holes are forlorn

spaces by the baker's rack.

there's empty sound

whenever the fridge is open,

cheese packages and apples

leave silence in their wake.

there's an empty spot behind me,

as I warm my feet at the deck's edge.

where once sad eyes peaked

over the top stair, there is absence.

but the worst hole of them all,

the gaping tear in my heart,

is the one most empty,

the one that cannot be filled.

Hope

The silence falls
as the small voice whispers,
"You are alone."

The darkness grows to consume time and space
and the black hole of existence
draws in and traps joy,
expelling despair.

A star falls
and in its infinite beauty,
a snowflake forms on the horizon of the future.

"You are alone?"

Sunlight splinters
off the crisp blanket of spring
and the silence falls
into the glow of the morning dew.

Desert

I am lost,
in a blizzard of answers,
seeking quiescence,
in the sunrise of knowledge.

And I will raise my voice,
calling for change of day,
calling for no!, somehow,
crying for change. . .

Will I ever find my way,
from beneath the shadow of silence,
through the cave of lonesome,
into the moonrise of autumn?

The Seasons Are Changing

We've had it quite warm (in the 80s and 90s) here in my home state until the start of this week.  Suddenly the we're in the 60s and 70s and its been cloudy and rainy!  On my way home the other night, I couldn't help but think how beautiful the mountains were, even though I couldn't see most of them!

the smell of cold and precipitation
the taste of winter on my tongue
a blanket gently draped across the peaks
the thought of summer obfuscated

by the hint
       of fall's arrival.

The Lady in Blue

diving,
     sighing,
          pirouetting in a maze of breeze

     swirling,
          twirling,
               dancing on leaves
     
          taking flight on a sunbeam,
               finding solitude in the mists

                         a song in a ceaseless moment

A Poem from Before Christmas Break

If a whiteboard could speak,

what would it say?

I have held many secrets.

Shh, don't tell.

I have displayed many lists.

-        lists for work

-        lists for play

-        lists for tomorrow's tasks

-        lists for yesterday's missed opportunities

-        the list goes on

I have held the scrawlings of possible

solutions to many problems.

Some became THE answer.

Many others have failed.

I have been filled with hopes and dreams

of passions and desires

and things that will never be. . .

but then again. . .

In my arms I have held the thoughts and ideas of

the many.  They fade into my background and

become part of my history, a history written

but never again read.  Stories once told

but now forgotten.  If only the letters and

numbers and symbols once gracing my

surface could remain and be remembered.

Oh, the things a whiteboard would tell,

if only a whiteboard could speak.

Refrigerator Poetry

We have some of those word magnets on the frig in our apartment.  These are little snippets that I just happened upon their compositions (my roommate posted a picture of one of them here).

                                                  how gray we dream
                                                    who see the laughter
                                                of which the fire sang

                        though as sky from

                            morning snow

                         tastes like spring

                      so too rain becomes

                              early fall

A Bit of Poetry

Here's little poem I wrote the other day.

Ashes

It

came.

It

came

slowly.

It came,

slowly at first,

but soon it swept in, out, over, and through.

It split bark and crushed undergrowth.

It melted

life.

Seasons came.

Seasons went.

Rain fell.

Snow piled.

Hail shattered.

Sun

shone.

And amidst the black, darkened

timbers, there was hope.

It peered

out from amongst

the shadows. The wind, brushing away

the dust, revealed

green,

and life

arose.

The Gleaners

Here's another poem I wrote this last fall semester. It's based on the painting "The Gleaners" by Jean-François Millet.

The Gleaners

Did Millet know?

Did he know what he had painted?

Of course, he knew,

though all others criticized. They,

the criticizers, knew not what he had painted,

what he meant by each and every brushstroke, each

careful swoosh of each

forkful thrown high to land with a soft

gurgle of water over pebbles.

"Revolution!"

they cried. "Revolution!

is his purpose!"

How sorely they missed it: how beautifully and simply and fully he made

these, the gleaners.

Yes,

they are peasants.

Yes,

they are poor,

yet see

how they live!

They

are quiet, anonymous, and humble.

Bent low, hands out-stretched, they brush their fingers along

the ground, searching to feel and feeling to search,

knowing the LORD

provides.

Millet, he knew.

Subtly mirroring

Ruth and her trust

for tomorrow's worries and sorrows,

the three gleaners work

in frozen posture, hoping

tomorrow's generations understand.

Coming Full Circle

Now that the semester is over, the fact that I will not be returning to Tech for the fall semester is really being to hit home. As I prepare for the multitude of changes I will be facing this summer and in the coming semester, I am reminded of a poem I wrote for my creative writing class this last fall.

Dishes

Around once, around twice, around

again and again she went, carefully

dragging striped cloth through watery

iridescence. Pulling back, her hands stung

like one thousand small pricks from one thousand microscopic needles.

How many more must she do before she was done?

Twenty? Thirty? Ninety?

"Because I'm your mother and I told you to."

"But it doesn't have to be done,

not now, not ever!"

she had said.

"Back in my day. . ."

"Back in your day, not my

day, not this

day," she had said.

Still, she went around

and around, like she had been doing for days, weeks, months.

Each circle brought more options

and more choices.

If only each circle

could be retraced back,

even as she now reversed

the motion of the striped cloth. Entropy

wouldn't allow it. Quandaries

became more complex

just as the universe became ever more unordered.

Would anything ever be simple;

would this

ever end?

Yes, this was it, the last

one. As she lifted it out, it shone

like a twin of the full moon, now rising

from the watery depths to meet

its partner at the sill. Stepping back,

she held out her hands, grasping

at thin air, as if to decide

which disk was hers.

Her focus wavered

and then came a crash

and a tinkling shower. The silent

patter of falling from her fingertips could not

then mask the flood. . .

pouring down. . .

and down. . .

her face.