Long Poem

I hate long
poems that
go on and on
making some
cerebral point
pointed by a
point of view
only the poet
who wrote the poem
would ever know
or care about.
Universal truth
abandoned and
a common bond
never bound but
words expected by
some teacher in
an obscure
junior college
to be understood
by her students
-What it mean?
-Why line break there?
-Why 50 pages
but each line
only 3 words?
Only the poet
who wrote the poem
would ever know
or care about
a lack of rhyme
or mention of
misanthropy on
the eve of winter’s
Dalmatian grip
or a circus
of puffins
returning to their
How magic
leaves leave Fall
by falling magically
with thoughts of
stardom fading as
the noonday sun
shines brighter
than all the home
fires burning to
call the lost
home for love
or hate or
whatever awaits
their time scarred lives.
For It’s these
obvious signs of
elevated “greatness”
and existential
extension that
grip me by
the throat and
threaten my very
being until, relenting,
I grasp the drawn-
out beast in a
fervent embrace
and declare my
acceptance and love
for all eternity but –
I cannot with
right conscience love
what demands to
be unlovely and
rip my life from life
and imprint it on
an unprintable page.And that is why
I hate long poems
that go on and on
making some cerebral point,
pointed to a
point of view
only the poet
who wrote the poem
would ever know
or care about.

My Goals are Flexible

About five weeks ago I embarked on a four week journey to teach my body how to do the splits. Now if you’re math savvy you’ll notice the anomoly in the previous sentence. For me, four weeks is not nearly enough time to learn how to rip the two halves of my body from each other like a Thanksgiving wishbone.

I’ll readily admit there was no way I was going to meet the four week goal. But I do have a a bit of an excuse because I pulled one or more major muscles in the lower half of my body last friday. Ok, technically that happened after the four weeks was up but it certainly felt like a contributing factor.

All this is simply to restate the obvious: I failed my initial splits experiment. But I’m not giving up entirely. I won’t let this defeat me. I’m going to get right back to stretching for the splits – as soon as I no longer have to use a cane to walk.

Excruciating Circumstances

Yesterday I thought it would be funny to sneak up on my unsuspecting teenager and try to scare him. He had on an unzipped hoodie and had pulled the two sides of it up and over his head. Don’t ask why he was doing that. As I said in the first sentence, he’s a teenager. He had no idea I was behind him.

So I quickly wrapped my arms around his waist and said “gotcha”. Well, I scared him so well that he threw himself forward while my arms where still locked around his waist. That move pulled me forward and wrenched something in my back.

Since then I’ve been in terrible pain. It’s been hard to sit, hard to stand and moving is, hard. I’m so uncomfortable that I really didn’t want to to write this post. When my son heard me say this he responded “Just skip it today, you have excruciating circumstances”. 

He thought he was pretty clever with that one. Actually, I thought it was pretty clever too. So I decided to write through the pain and post this, just so I could use his phrase. 

Excruciating Circumstances

Universal Art

Most tissue boxes have patterns printed
with wavy lines, paisleys, arcs or dots.
And colors ranging from simple to gaudy.

But few are perfect for my home and
why should they be? I mean,
unless every box had an infinite palate 
and a nuclear skin that could explode
into every shape imaginable how
could the tissue box artist know
what I need out of tissue box art?

There is no universal art in
my universe, that is to say I
have never found it so. But
I usually get lucky and
find a tissue box that works
well enough with my décor.