What is the capital of Vermont? (guess, readers – don’t google!) I guessed wrong. It’s Montpelier. Aron, purveyor of random trivia, quizzed me on a Lyft ride about capital cities worldwide. We had a fun time talking about the things we insist our kids learn by heart—for Aron’s kids, capitals and geography. For mine, fairy tales.
The Stranger: Aron
The Word: Capture
The poem I wrote:
“Explaining the concept of infinity to my son”
Each day’s work.
After it, one more day.
Beyond that sky, more sky.
Can you capture any of this?
Behind that mountain
more mountains.
The Challenge: Do you have a poem in you on this word? Write one here.
May 15, 2019 at 4:39 pm
The eddies, the flashes of understanding, the gurgles, the blinding un-answerables,
Are all ephemeral slivers of the daily and the hourly,
Their bursts like novas.
Fix your gaze on them, steady.
Forget the camera.
These defy capture.
May 16, 2019 at 5:31 pm
Philadelphia State Hospital, 1975
We sat long hours
in circular fashion.
Always a circle, it seemed,
so that even the smallest move
attracted the therapy light,
invited the group into a life,
to rummage about
for insights, left like spilled popcorn,
around each fiberglass chair.
A ten by ten room, eight cigarettes, zero window,
seventy one pounds of tension,
twelve brick faces intent on escaping
the capture of another’s eyes.
Have you ever been mandatory?
Described as the last test to pass?
A curious burden, still
ten car lengths better than
being anyone else in the room.
You alone get a name tag.
Only your eyes leave the floor,
Only your belt makes the sound of keys.
And still, you wonder
why you also feel captured
in saying only those right things.
May 16, 2019 at 8:19 pm
Wow, Kevin. Thanks for taking me back, I think.
May 16, 2019 at 8:17 pm
Pixie Elated
I had heard you cannot look at them.
You can only catch a glimpse.
When viewed from your eye’s corner,
You might see these flying imps.
So, I was positively pixilated
With my latest image capture.
It was of the fair faery folk
At their soiree e’en rapture.
I had devised a side cam lens
Tapered to a nook
And set it on tripod,
Disguised, and by a brook.
In the early eventide,
Just before the gloaming,
I had set a bowl of beer
With its head a’ foaming.
Faeries like to tipple
And they also like some bubbles
To celebrate what’s dear
And wash away their troubles.
Like hummers to sweet water,
Round and round they flew
While my surreptitious camera
Silently snapped a few.
I’ll set up again tomorrow.
Perhaps, I’ll offer up a scone
Maybe, we can listen in.
I’ll leave a microphone.
Do you think they’d like some music?
I could leave a small ear bud
Possibly, something Celtic or,
Would it go over like a thud?
You will be glad to know
All went well as I had planned.
The party went in full swing.
Almost got out of hand.
They really liked the tunes
And they found the hidden mike
I’ll post it all on You Tube so
You can hear what it was like.
The faeries got befuddled.
They danced the hokey-pokey.
After they drank more ale,
It was drunken karaoke.
Who knew a tiny pixie
Could act as such a lush?
I’m glad they all departed
Before the owl came in a rush.
Know what happened just last night?
I was washing dishes
When something just out of sight
Whispered, “You’ve got three wishes.”
Do you think that this is true
Or, merely, my imagining?
For my first, I’d like to DJ
At tomorrow’s faery fling.
May 19, 2019 at 7:31 pm
Metamorphosis
For a lifetime you inched forward
on your knees, eyes upward,
preparing for the day
you could wrap yourself
in a handmade sarcophagus
and prepare to soar.
At the signal you did not hesitate–
dove in for transformation–
and only once encased did you realize
cocoons lack air and light.
Captured in a self-made grave
the only option was rebirth
and though you felt every bit of flesh
rip open to harness you with wings
your toothless mouth no longer screams.
Think only, Love, on the day you emerged—
transformed—
winged and glorious
to flutter above a world
in which you no longer belong.
Drinking sickly sweet nectar
you dream of the crisp acidity of leaves.
Do you miss the roughness of bark under so many feet
as you grope for currents of air?
Exalted One, do you ever miss the ground?