As kids we ate Del Monte peas, carrots, green beans from a can. I have no memory of fresh zucchini, broccoli, eggplant or beets ever appearing on our plates. My mother didn’t like to cook, though she was raised picking from her father’s garden—golden corn and juicy tomatoes, lettuces grown green and fresh, fava beans brought from the old country. She fancied herself a modern woman, or perhaps, she just didn’t have the time or inclination, after running around after five young children all day.
Priming the creative pump at night, writing in my IPad, random thoughts on various topics. You know, just letting the mind roam free. Hoping the Muse can come to the rescue.
The heavy-set man sits on the low-level wall every day between 11 & 12 Monday through Friday, draped in a fluorescent orange vest, legs dangling, coke to his right, chips to his left, working his way through the sandwich from the cafe run by Joy…
You don’t really “talk” to ghosts, anyway. It’s my experience, which is very, very limited, that it’s all unspoken. Nothing audible passes, though you do hear words, not through ears, more like in the chest, that juncture in the upper thorax, slightly above where the heart lies.
I just reorganized my closet, dresser, filed or shredded papers that have been on my desk for months. I’ve got a bag of clothes, shoes, belts and sundry other items ready to take to the local women’s shelter. I’ve folded and tucked away winter sweaters, long-sleeve shirts and corduroy pants and pulled out the summer dresses, shorts and sleeveless tops.
You could say I wasted time today; read the comics, a couple of useless articles in the paper, took the long way round to work, slowed down to watch kids of all ages play sports in the park.
Watching a football game that I don’t really care about. Toggling the news channel. The world’s a mess, but keep hope alive. I can hear the water turned on and off in the apartment next door. A dog barks across the way. The city is waiting for the storm to drop. My stomach gurgles. I feel content.
I’ve always had pride (that could be part of the problem here) about how healthy I eat and regularly exercise. I have counted on that track record to ward off common viruses and germ-passed illnesses that circulate on a regular basis, but a fissure has opened up in that theory.
Write a brave poem, my mind says to my shrinking self, who just wants to take a nap. Okay, okay, what is brave and what is not? Let’s discuss.
On the shuttle from Sea-Tac to Bellingham zipping up the I5 north, on the way to see my cousins, I keep saying (in my head of course) I love you, I love you, not sure who, or what, I’m speaking to—could be the Space Needle coming up on the right, powder blue sky, the just turning aspens lining the freeway.
Hari B Poet 