Ordinary Life

And so, I end this month-long tip of the hat to Poetry Month with another poem-prophetic. I am reminded too, of so many porches filled now with emptiness; barren swings and rocking chairs where stories used to sit. I see loved ones lingering in the twilight, soon to take sweet rest. Of all the seats in the house, yours with mine is best. Thinking back over the porches we've shared,sitting in hammocks or worn-out lawn chairs- beautiful landscapes or time passing through, the view is improved for watching with you.   They Sit Together on the Porch Wendell Berry They sit together on the porch, the dark Almost fallen, the house behind them dark. Their supper done with, they have washed and dried The dishes–only two plates now, two glasses, Two knives, two forks, two spoons–small work for two. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, At rest. He smokes his pipe. They do not speak, And when they speak at last it is to say What each one knows the other knows. They have One mind between ...

One of my favorites.  LITANY BILLY COLLINS You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine... -Jacques Crickillon You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker, and the marsh birds suddenly in flight. However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air. It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general's head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk. And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse. It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof. I also happen to be the shooting star...

I have often been accused of talking too much to strangers.  Or as someone recently put it,   * "Everytime I turn around, you're talking to some new weird featherplucker."  While this poem seems to be going opposite my direction, by speaking to few if any along its mosey way, it could easily find itself going my way, up on the freeway of imediate and immersive conversation, if as seatmate it dared to catch my eye or if as waitress, it braved a friendly smile. Strangers no more, atttentive I would listen as it unpacked. Follow the linked title to the poem and an interview with Billy Collins Traveling Alone   Billy Collins At the hotel coffee shop that morning, the waitress was wearing a pink uniform with “Florence” written in script over her heart.  And the man who checked my bag had a nameplate that said “Ben.” Behind him was a long row of royal palms.  On the plane, two women poured drinks from a cart they rolled down the aisle—“Debbie” and “Lynn” accordi...

Found this in an old New Yorker discard years back. It's clipped and pasted in an old journal...somewhere.  Horse Piano Anna MacDonald The idea is to get a horse, a Central Park workhorse. A horse who lives in a city, over in the hell part of Hell’s Kitchen, in a big metal tent. You have to get one who is dying. Maybe you get his last day on the job, his owner, his     tourists. You get his walk back home at the end of the day, some flies, some drool. You get his deathbed, maybe. And then, post mortem, still warm, you get the vet or else     the butcher to take his three best legs. And then you get the taxidermist     to stuff them heavy, with some alloy, steel, something. Next day you go over to Christie’s interiors sale and buy a     baby-grand piano, shabby condition but tony provenance, let’s say it graced the     entry hall of some or other Vanderbilt’s Gold Coast classic ...

  I recently snagged a copy of  O, What A Luxury to add to my Keillor shelf. Though I have read most Keillor titles,  I tend to wait to adopt new family members until Fate sends them my way via thrift store or Friends of the Library sales. Both of the pictured volumes were gleaned from the limbs of ye old Dollar Tree. They're probably missing half their rhymes,  but I would never discriminate against a book with special needs. They're good enough just the way they are. (Just this week I rescued two crayon-ed picture books -one an Eric Carle!- from library discard...almost every word can still be made out, have they no heart?) Enough of my yammering,  let's talk about the things that go down after dark. FORBIDDEN Garrison Keillor Forbidden tastes, secret delights Guilty pleasures late at night So many things a person wants Are not found in restaurants When I suffer from heartbreak I like some Chocolate Bacon Cake You won’t find it on the grocery shelf You’ve go...

Today's poem, gleaned from my Poetry Foundation email archive, reminds us that worry gets you nowhere. Suppose Phoebe Cary   Suppose, my little lady,       Your doll should break her head, Could you make it whole by crying       Till your eyes and nose are red? And would n’t it be pleasanter       To treat it as a joke; And say you ’re glad “’T was Dolly’s       And not your head that broke?” Suppose you ’re dressed for walking,       And the rain comes pouring down, Will it clear off any sooner       Because you scold and frown? And would n’t it be nicer       For you to smile than pout, And so make sunshine in the house       When there is none without? Suppose your task, my little man,       Is very hard to get, ...

I love this one so much. Found it on Poetry Fountation 's app. It made me laugh and it made me think of certain beloved and aging uncles with whom i have enjoyed many a candid conversation.  How to Be Perfect Ron Padgett Get some sleep. Don't give advice. Take care of your teeth and gums. Don't be afraid of anything beyond your control. Don't be afraid, for instance, that the building will collapse as you sleep, or that someone you love will suddenly drop dead. Eat an orange every morning. Be friendly. It will help make you happy. Raise your pulse rate to 120 beats per minute for 20 straight minutes four or five times a week doing anything you enjoy. Hope for everything. Expect nothing. Take care of things close to home first. Straighten up your room before you save the world. Then save the world. Know that the desire to be perfect is probably the veiled expression of another desire—to be loved, perhaps, or not to die. Make eye contact with a tree. Be skeptical about al...

From my favorites list on Poetry Foundation 's Mobile App: Uncouplings Craig Arnold There is no I in teamwork but there is a two maker there is no I in together but there is a got three a get to her the I in relationship is the heart I slip on a lithe prison in all communication we count on a mimic ( I am not uncomic ) our listening skills are silent killings there is no we in marriage but a grim area there is an I in family also my fail.

Another poem previously shared with my youngest brother   and now shared with you-  via Poetry Foundation's poetry app . In Love, His Grammar Grew Stephen Dunn In love, his grammar grew rich with intensifiers, and adverbs fell madly from the sky like pheasants for the peasantry, and he, as sated as they were, lolled under shade trees until roused by moonlight and the beautiful fraternal twins and and but . Oh that was when he knew he couldn’t resist a conjunction of any kind. One said accumulate , the other was a doubter who loved the wind and the mind that cleans up after it.                                            For love he wanted to break all the rules, light a candle behind a sentence named Sheila, always running on and wishing to be stopped by the hard button of a period. Sometimes, in desperation, he’d look toward a mannequin or a window dresser with a penc...

Poetry Foundation 's mobile app allows you to save and share poems that tickle your fancy. I recently switched to a new phone and, to rebuild my favorites archive, had to comb my archived mail for poems sent to various siblings, parents or friends from the previous device.(Poetry Foundation discontinued use of User Profiles.  The app uses local storage per device) This is a poem I shared with my youngest brother , with a nod to our mutual enjoyment of playing Acrophobia .  (Alas, Acrophobia is no more. To enjoy similar experience, consider playing AcroChallenge or AcroFever ) Anagrammer Peter Pereira If you believe in the magic of language, then Elvis really Lives and Princess Diana foretold I end as car spin. If you believe the letters themselves contain a power within them, then you understand what makes outside tedious, how desperation becomes a rope ends it. The circular logic that allows senator to become treason, and treason to become atoners. That eleven plu...