Dipping his hand into the stream of fate
Ripping seeds from their pods
Putting them on a different path
Grind them fine
(Not plants for you no more dear seeds)
Sown in stomachs
Fueling animal belly-fires
For now. For now.
Back to the hoe
Back to the grindstone
Back to the oven
Back to the table
(Say that prayer)
Stiff crust, soft inside
Yet Warm enough from the oven
To melt the butter
(Back to the hoe)
Some will savor that
And say they are satisfied
The seeds of that will feed the body
The love of that bread
Is what feeds the soul
20191016 for my lady, and the prompt at http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2019/10/poets-united-midweek-motif-food-we-eat.html
what can match this restlessness
when all that needs doing is uncomfortable
and all the fun is empty.
when i turn and turn again
like a certain leopard in the 13th century
what can match this longing
these desperate please
for blessings, assistance,
to see you more clearly.
amid these mountains, the sea, great sweeping plains,
forests of mighty trees, yellowstone, yosemite,
there is no peace.
i’ll cut down that tree, burn the wood,
ten thousand plastic bottles for the sea.
These contributions are not so valuable
in all the wide world, the infinite expanse
there is in me a tiny grain of grief
that minute longing is majestic.
not these words.
Thus I spake
Before I knew of words
Robin and Arthur called
And I ran after,
Through those sun filled meadows
(Looking at the golden grass)
Near to the castle.
The dark forest beaconed though
I pretended not to hear
Satisfied myself with mere apple trees.
(Whence comes that sweetness?)
No idea that god was so near,
Like a snowbank north of the house.
College too receded,
Jobs and tools cane and went
As the computers filled in
Keeping the mystics at bay.
Until Heathers present one birthday.
Thus the sun came again to Konya.
And all the words I thought I knew
Became the babbling of an infant.
Oh god please teach me more!
20191011 – For the prompt at Poets United to respond to a collection that has touched me deeply. The first literary anything that moved me was the tales of King Arthur and Robin Hood, though i didn’t understand then quite how or why, i just knew what i liked. The grass seemed golden. In 2015 i found Robert Bly, here i reference his poem Snowbanks North of the House. Most recently i’ve been infatuated with Jallaludin Rumi, who met his mystic in Konya in the 13th century.
Each machine is just a bunch of resources
Memory. . storage . processors
Once they come online, they are snatched away
Like a leaf falling onto the surface
of a swift running stream
Your mind is not your own
Your memory filled with things
That never happens to you
It’s OK though, someone else is thinking
Your thoughts for you
For dinosaurs it was asteroids
Black rhinos murdered for
Traditional Chinese medicine
Passenger pidgeon, hunted for meat
Mastodon = Neanderthal
Smilodon = stuck in tarpits
Great auks for feather pillows
Jamaican giant galliwasp, meeting mongooses
But the extinction level event for
My heart was meeting You
A broken whisper lay there
On a pile in the back of her shop
For today’s twiglet at https://thetwiglets.wordpress.com/2019/09/17/twiglet-144/