Hi all!

A family member pointed out that I typed "files" instead of "flies" in my poem "Engines." Which would not make much sense, in the context. Though if you work in an office you might think a young person naturally files, which isn't true, as I can tell you from experience.

I will share now a few poems from 2016. They were sitting idly in my cabinet and I figured I should give them some fresh air.

THE PASSIVIST

The revolutionary outlived his fervor

And learned to garden in his old age.

A visitor was struck by how slowly he moved

And how he arranged the light in his house

To fall upon the cat sleeping on a rug

Or the thick pottery dishes drying in the drain board.

When he spoke, it was about the river

Which had flooded its banks again

Or the amount of glass in a building

In Boston, or how you took your tea.

If he died on a Monday it would be

On a train to the center of town

Where he would study the faces of workers

And listen to boys tease one another

As they headed to their classrooms.

There he would sit

With a little smile on his face,

A picture of complete contentment.

OFFERINGS

I will have no great deeds to offer you

When I come across the great water

Nor will I be the sweetest grape on your vine

Or the most faithful converted criminal

To have hung beside you on the day of sacrifice.

But there will be the things that did not happen

Because I spoke, the places I could not go back,

The shunning of friends, the hostile glance across the room.

There will be the yielding in secret

When you placed the burden on my shoulders

That even now I have never actually seen,

The waking at night in full assurance,

And the yes that cannot be described.

As to your gifts, they are mingled

In the tears and sweat of my journey;

Their sheen is off; they have begun to rust.

I am sorry I could not keep them bright.

But you will delight in them, and teach me how

To restore them with peals of hilarious, irresistible mirth.

PRIMER FOR LIVING

Never put on this very day

What you could bear tomorrow

The world has always time for joy

But gives no place to sorrow.

A stitch in time if rashly done

Will always lead to nine

One hand may wash the other hand

They play with turpentine.

If you find nothing nice to say

Spray insults far and wide

You will be president some day

And none will dare to chide.

Do not look before you leap

You’d never move at all

Hard work will lead to fretted sleep

And sweetness to a fall.

JULY 4 NEIGHBORHOOD

No more parade; a shopping cart squeals

On a quiet avenue; next door

A brown dog complains over and over.

The distant fireworks we hear

Will be surrounded by excitement

For the makers of horns and banners

In an unfree country across the Pacific.

Somewhere, zeal will puncture people

Before turning the weapon on itself.

Somewhere, a child will play with fire

And blow off a hand or an eye.

But freedom together has become a rune

Whose key no one can discover.

We harangue one another over and over:

“Learn to be free!” rehearsing our speech

In an empty ballroom, a bathroom mirror,

While, below, the progression

Of tasks and pleasures grinds to a halt.

We should at least attend the wake

If we cannot make the celebration.

Yay, I was able to paste these from my computer file. 

Have a wonderful day, & stay soft.

Love, Barbara