I am wound tight.
With every tick of my heart
two hands move clockwise
around the circle of my day,
and the hands are called
Stay and Go.
There are things I don’t know:
The type of caterpillars
in the upstairs closets –
much fatter than wool moth larvae –
and whether they are hungry.
How to catch fish.
How to find peace.
How to make a clock.
There are things I think I know:
Life is precious.
Water flows downhill to the sea.
Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
But there comes a time
when it doesn’t matter who’s right
if there is too much sorrow
and not enough joy
in the face of the stopped clock.
who made the world,
Stars Rain Sun Moon
with Your Word,
give light to more stars
than You, Yourself,
You don’t think in a conscious way that it could never happen, because even that would mean to allow that it could, when it is, in fact, the unthinkable. But the world will always think otherwise, or would if it could. And so your heart is torn to pieces. Not into neat, square pieces like paper creased and ripped along the sharp edge of the kitchen table of your one and present life. Like the pound of flesh that it is, ragged, an urgent beating thing. If you could, you would press it, warm and sticky, against the white walls of power, making red-stained valentines.
I think we can all agree
that it’s a terrible conceit,
a self-important conflation,
when he says he feels like
a refugee just because
he sometimes sleeps on the couch
and has to move his piles
of composition books and crossword puzzles
and tomorrow’s running clothes
from room to room, corner to corner.
He wraps his precious self-respect
in a tattered blanket of ego
and clutches it to his chest
as he squeezes on board
the leaky vessel of another moonless crossing.
From the Mayan creation story in the Popol Vuh, the first people were made of earth and mud, but they dissolved in water. The second people were made of wood, but they lacked mind and spirit. Then the animals gathered up corn, and the gods made the corn into men and women.
“The Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being” (Genesis 2.7).
Poets gather up life-dust
and pat-a-cake it into poetry
like making tortillas by hand
from masa harina – corn flour –
pressed from palm to palm.
To inspire means to breathe in,
and so we breathe in, breath out,
we share these molecules of truth,
and our stories live through us
like people of mind and spirit.
This is how we live, how we go on,
forming our lives from mere dust,
from the grains of the earth, sharing
pieces of warm tortillas fresh-baked
over wood fires, a holy sacrament.
They trudge, they tramp,
they plod and slog and lumber,
earthbound all, moles and men,
so small they look from the vantage
of the merest bird or bee.
*title by Nananoyz