Ordinary Life

Sometimes they're on land, too.

One day, you might drive past a busted bag of flour on a busy street downtown. You're just gonna have to press on knowing the backstory will never belong to you. It is almost enough to have seen it with your own eyes. Almost. Tell yourself you can build a new story upon its head...someday.  And get on with your life.

Some stuff he won't be needing anymore... things that remind us he was here... and that he was our very own.

The old fishing pier  at Clam Creek on Jekyll Island is one of the tacks in my personal map. You know, one of those places on the planet where a soul can just exhale. An album exists: www.flickr.com/gp126152547@NO2/782f61

...to be given flowers...

I know that poetry month is over but poetry can be habit forming. Today,  I'm watching Chandler at a Hurricane Jr. golf event in Knoxville. It's the first of his tournaments I've been able to follow him from start to finish. I didn't go looking for a random poem to share, rather I found myself thinking along these lines as I watched my boy  take to the tees and hold his own amongst competitors of all kinds. ..and some who are not kind at all.  He's playing well enough- might not take home the biggest trophy today- but he's right on par in his pursuit of  becoming a man, a real-life gentleman...and that's who this game belongs to, no? I'm his mom, I'm supposed to be proud I guess - but this reaches beyond pride into hopefulness and joy.  If he never plays golf well again another day of his life, but holds to integrity and fosters the growth of good character in every facet of his life for the rest of those same days, a green jacket will pale in the sp...

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 ...