Category Archives: Thingishness

A Lost Button

The poetry of a lost button is the poetry of a runaway member of the marching band. Still in uniform but no longer stepping in place to a rehearsed tune. Untethered from the narrow convention of holding day’s fabric together — what might it become? A small, shining disc rolling downhill on a sidewalk. Unnoticed. Picking up speed and infinite possibilities along the way.


Alarm Clocks

The poetry of alarm clocks is life’s urgency badly named. Alarm? As if there were not motivations of fear enough in this world. Pocket-sized machinery shreds night’s quiet blanket of dark. So many high-pitched horns wailing. As if day were a planned emergency, the body a hurtling ambulance. What if Rumi were to lean and whisper in our ears instead? ‘The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep…’

Axilla

The poetry of axilla is the poetry of unsung hidden hollow where arm and shoulder meet. Carved out pyramid that flattens for reach and flex. Small cave of sweat and magnificence bone&muscle hinged. Secret junction of delivery mapped rich by artery vein gland nerve and node. Industrious, upside-down pockets whose proof of service we carry so comically. Like dirty socks (as perfectly natural and mildly embarassing.)


A Basket

The poetry of a basket is the poetry of a tribeswoman’s fingers weaving earth fiber into a song of symmetry. Form wedded to function, a durable embrace of emptiness meant to be filled, carried, used. A basket is art that participates daily and does not lean on leisure. Reminding those of us given to false notions of drudgery, that at the heart of all hard, honest labor lies a brave capacity for delight.


The Letter L

The poetry of the letter l is the poetry of the alphabet’s dangling leg. Letter that gives rise to so many words that have difficulty arriving and trouble moving on. Lingerer laggard loafer latecomer.  She felt an affinity to this slender consonant, being given to such things too. Always arriving it seemed, a few years after everyone else had moved on, and then wanting nothing more than to stay and listen to the grass grow.