I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood. 

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you. 

     – Walt Whitman, from "Song of Myself"

You're a pumpkin in the creek

Bad dirt. I syncopate syncopations.

You suffer. Tiny rabbits in rainbow colors. Everybody knows. 

Don't rescue me with sea salt. I cried and have been answered.

When the stars go, remember me:

Teacher. Writer. Farmer. More protein than an egg.

Thank You Sybil Ludington

"Sybil Ludington (April 5, 1761 – February 26, 1839) was a heroine of the American Revolutionary War who is famous for her night ride on April 26, 1777, to alert American colonial forces to the approach of the British. Her action was similar to that performed by Paul Revere,^{[1][2][3][4][5]} though she rode more than twice the distance of Revere, rode alone, and was only 16 years old at the time of her action. She was an aunt of Harrison Ludington, the Governor of Wisconsin (1876–78)."


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sybil_Ludington?TIL

Mother to Son, by Langston Hughes

 

 

Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor—

Bare.

But all the time

I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark

Where there ain't been no light.

So boy, don't you turn back.

Don't you set down on the steps

'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.

Don't you fall now—

For I'se still goin', honey,

I'se still climbin',

And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

 

 

 

mustard seeds

In my dream I had had enough.

Three white middle-aged men stood just inside the rear entrance to the rural supermarket harassing me. Instead of walking by I stopped beside them. "Please don't speak to me that way." I said. Their heckling grew louder, their laughter too, and I repeated myself, at least four times. Please don't speak to me that way. As I spoke I straightened my spine, pushing from my heels up toward the ceiling, teeth gritted, willing myself to project confidence, strength, poise. To emphasize, through my physicality, that I am also human. Please don't speak to me that way. Then one of the men picked up a ketchup bottle from a table behind him, one of those label-less, all-red entities sitting unwashed-for-years-probably on pizza parlors' grimy tabletops. Without warning he squirted me with it, sticky red ketchup shooting all over my face, its viscosity dripping from my hair onto my chest while the other men laughed. Like some low-budget attempt at a re-gendering of the Passion of the Christ.

I can't really describe how awful it was, standing there as this man evacuated a bottle of ketchup onto me, and instead of coming to my aid the other shoppers laughed. I don't think I said anything after that, just walked away, lurching my way past dimly lit aisles of seltzer and canned goods, still trying to look composed. I sat myself in the passenger seat of the black Honda CR-V, touched a hand to my matted red hair, mostly numb but thinking, listlessly, if anything I might have done or said would have made any kind of difference.





Earlier we were at his grandparents' house, of course they weren't really his grandparents nor was it really their house, but you know how dreams work. We kneeled in the flattened earth where a garden could be, fantasized about a barn, some chickens, pigs, a few goats--our little dream farmette. I looked worriedly at the development already encroaching on the fields around the cabin. There's a good chance, I pointed out, that it will all be gone before we have a chance to inherit it.

Love doesn't exist to meet your expectations.

I write a lot of poems in my head while I'm walking in the woods and too often, lately, I neglect to ever write them down. At the same time I am growing more comfortable with allowing things--moments, experiences, feelings, ideas, (poems)--to be fleeting. To be there and then to be gone. I may never again think about the sunset over the river today, how the sky flashed gold behind me, startling my eye such that I thought, for a moment, I was being followed.

On change and the status quo

Of course, I make the choice every day by living it.