Bent at the waist to alleviate the pressure
I see my feet,
black boots laced to the top
what a wonder they are against the old brick floor
flanked by subway tile.
My feet, my very own: Thank You.
I stop to run my fingers over the worn leather,
breathing gratitude.
© A. DePriest
The wind chimes speak the language
of a silent, frozen landscape
lending a tinny softness to the brittle limbs,
weighty and tired.
We thought winter had forgotten us
this year,
the geese never left the ponds;
nestling comfortably into human-made
wood-sided houses instead,
taking swims at dusk alongside
the Great Heron
who dreams of January in a longing
for isolation,
the way we dream our own stolen moments
of stillness
amidst the cries of hungry babes;
mornings overcrowded by footed pajamas
and burnt potatoes,
piling ourselves into tiny houses,
bracing for the winter of our year.
© A. DePriest
When I’m alone I eat cereal for lunch
and dinner if there’s some left
using the leftover grounds in the pour-over
I drink coffee all day
pouring over and over and over
I open the doors and windows
feel the AC work in overtime
without getting up to help
Instead of showering I sit in piles of New Yorker back issues
awash in pictures and poetry
(almost always by men)
a metaphorical bathing in masculine thought
now that’s a new concept (it’s raining men?)
This morning I slugged a cup of coffee
before barely dragging my kid to school
still in yesterday’s mascara
and as I realized after a quick mirror-check in the rear-view
last night’s Nero d’Avola gracing my blistered lip.
There was a time when you fit nicely in the compartment i built for you
or perhaps it’s an injustice to reality to take credit for that space you created for yourself
i exist in the equation only to open or close the once revolving door that long ago stopped moving
filing you away with all the other Lost Causes makes life more orderly
and i like that.
“Through the fence, between curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting”
«««««««««««««««««««««««
“The broken flower drooped over Ben’s fist and his eyes were empty and blue and serene again as cornice and façade flowed smoothly once more from left to right; post and tree, window and doorway, and signboard, each in its ordered place.”
the first and last sentences of The Sound and The Fury, respectively.
I love seeing them side by side: a dizzying, sweeping circle of a book as only Faulkner could write. This repetitive language of space, place, and the way we move through them both physically and metaphorically ees delicious.
How important is it to nudge the process
like bottle feeding pigs or
force-feeding ducks to the point of implosion
for the most flavorful, lusty bits
of meat
but also life and its unfolding
the wait is strange:
creating a void
to be filled with action
to aid in the precarious unfolding
of ambition
like vegan grilled cheese: am i trying too hard?
perhaps the natural is better left that way.
The trees go on despite the fence rows
unquestioning, resolved to root down, flourishing
through awkward placement
gracefully extending crooked arms to reach for the sun
however it chooses to fall
digging deep for water, cultivating a life.
empty the mind, inhabit the body.
turn off the chatter, redirect to quiet action.
don’t just wake up, brew java, fry an egg-
breathe it in>>>>>>>>>>
become the thing you fear then watch it blossom into
the radiant and unexpected.
each day
every second
-learn to die-
kill yourself to be reborn
a mind wiped clean,
a moment of redemption.
Turn to meet yourself
knees knocking
heart pounding
this is what it means to live>>>>>
actively seeking out the death of self,
absolute and total annihilation of the desires we cling to like life preservers
-drowning all the same-
afraid to swim we float.
and by “we” i mean “me”
before i say the mind is weak
let me say mine is weakest.
i can convince myself of anything
and just as soon be convinced of nothing.
today i miss your long hair and eyes filled with the excitement of a child on the morning of her birthday,
every day
when was the last time i found myself alone, wedded to the moment, afraid to shatter this thing we’ve created
this empty bed used to be ours, the place where you and i became us;
a veritable confessional of down and slippery cotton.
because this is just as poignant now as it was 8 years ago.
One day you will be too old for this…
painting the ocean, mixing colors to make the deepest greens and the greyest blues, a brush in each hand, ten more piled high.
You will not always believe that swishing your hands in the same bowl used for dipping the brushes constitutes a proper washing.
Let’s celebrate this holiday by doing exactly nothing.
The kind of nothing remembered years after the forgotten days filled with things.
Sitting on pocked boulders, swatting mosquitoes, watching you “work” in the stream will do just fine.
You stay while i refill this mug, finish that corner now
and
we will be on our way…..
On our way to the next place with better wood floors
and less scrubbing around the baseboards,
more time for these days of quiet, mundane bliss.
September in the foothills means yellow leaves blowing on hot days, rainy afternoons giving way to crisp nights.
It is good to be here,
the unknown greeting you at every corner,
each smile a different route leading to a better future.
