My dog most certainly is god spelled backward.

zeke-vizsla-cute-dog-pet

My dog most certainly is god spelled backward.
He is sublimely present.
No fatigue.
He loves.
He licks.
He chases and wags.
Eats, shits, leaps like a dolphin for his Frisbee.
Sleeps and guards.
Snorts in his sleep and awake,
begs for orts of cheese, smackerels of beef crumb.
A belly rub, an ear massage.

~ Melissa Pritchard, Decomposing Articles of FaithA Solemn Pleasure: To Imagine, Witness, And Write (The Art of the Essay)


Notes:

Running. To 7:20 am.

running-black-white

It’s 2:44 am.
A Full Moon.
Its lambent lighting caresses the earth’s surface.

Parched.
I trudge downstairs.
Hands greedily reach for ice water.

Eyes pan down to the second shelf.
I reach for the container and lift out two of the largest.
Driscoll’s Finest Raspberries from Watsonville, CA.
The tongue savors the sweet nectar from the red drupelets.

On to unfinished business.
A partially started, uninspiring mess of words following yesterday’s run.
Old fruit aging in the back of the crisper.
I drag the cursor down to select the entire passage.
And hit Delete to bury it.

It was 6:51 am. Yesterday.
I was half way through the run.
It came as a Mind-Pop.
I need to get back by 7:20 am.
But I’m too far out on this loop.
I must get back by 7:20 am. [Read more…]

Inhale

noxzema

Sometimes all you have to do is open a jar. The smell of Noxzema takes me back to the summer of 1957, and the front seat of the old Hudson my boyfriend drove, and how we parked at the Amagansett beach at night and made out like crazy, and afterward I was afraid I was pregnant, even though we didn’t do anything but kiss. The fear and the pleasure are as fresh to me every time I smell the stuff, and I keep a jar around so I can remember being young.

~ Abigail Thomas, Thinking About Memoir


Image: gabysbeautyblog

 

Under Pressure?

painting-Almedia-blue

I listed my blessings: all those
I love who hold me here.
I looked up at the thick
interlacing of branches above my head
and saw, high up, the bright blue
of air I might breathe, air I could swim to.

—Gregory Orr, “Under Pressure,” in City of Salt


Poem: I Hear It Deep In The Hearts Core. Art: Helena Almedia (mennyfox55)

It’s been a long day

woman-portrait-tired-fatigue

And yet I swear
I love this earth
that scars and scalds,
that burns my feet.

And even hell is holy.

~ Gregory Orr, from “Tin Cup,” in The Caged Owl: New and Selected Poems


Notes:

What else is there? What else do we need?

waterfall-gif

I am pleased enough with surfaces — in fact they alone seem to me to be of much importance. Such things for example as the grasp of a child’s hand in your own, the flavor of an apple, the embrace of friend or lover, the silk of a girl’s thigh, the sunlight on rock and leaves, the feel of music, the bark of a tree, the abrasion of granite and sand, the plunge of clear water into a pool, the face of the wind — what else is there? What else do we need?

~ Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire


Source: Thank you Whiskey River

 

Empty Nest (and fully tethered)

cereal-bowl

One child in Detroit, working.
Another, in New York City, working.
And their Dad,
at home,
tethered to gadgets,
and to them,
is reading.
And here it comes…
[Read more…]

In zealous agreement

Fathers-Day-daughter-son-parent

Scott Addington writes, “As is often the case, my purpose became clearly evident after I had stopped looking for it. On October 11, 1995, my daughter was born. Beginning with that moment, there has never been the slightest doubt regarding the purpose and source of meaning in my life. Being a father is the most meaningful and rewarding pursuit a man could ever hope to experience.”

~ David Brooks, Hearts Broken Open


Photo: wilstar

Riding Metro-North. Day 1 for (My) Workin’ Man.

eric-tie-striped-son-work

Thursday morning.
We’re on the 8:01 a.m. train to Grand Central.
Eric is seated across from me.
His head is leaning against the window.
His eyes are closed.
His body is swaying with the slow turns of the track.

I look. I take a long look. And I’m rolling back 17 years.

He’s clutching his Mother’s right hand, scooching to keep up, his oversized blue backpack bounces up and down.  Mom let’s go of his hand.  He looks back.  His lower lip is quivering. His arm reaches back for his Mother while his Kindergarten teacher welcomes him into the building.

Blink.

And so, here we are. Father and Son are commuting to Manhattan. Day 1 of Son’s first paying job.

I take inventory. From bottom up.

He’s wearing his Dad’s hand-me-down black, plain-toe oxford shoes.  45 minutes earlier he asks: “Do I need to polish my shoes?”  College student with a 3.95 GPA is looking down at the dust and scuff marks.  He doesn’t bother looking at Dad. 21 years of co-habitation and 21 years of absorbing sharp nips and tucks of Patriarchal coaching, instinct tells him that it’s a bad decision. Dad grabs the shoes and cleans them up. “Can I borrow your socks Dad.” “Take what you need.” [Read more…]

You are not an easy person to…

clothing by Ahmed Abdel Rahman

I open up my body,
whole and spit-shined eager
and inside there is only a mouth.
The mouth says
You are not an easy person to love.
Curious, I reach into this mouth
and pull out the tongue.

I make the tongue say it again, and again.
You are not an easy person…
You are not an easy person to…

And it’s so silly looking.
This little flip-flopping thing
in the palm of my hand.”

– Clementine von Radics, “A Bad Weekend in Three Parts,” published in Drunk in a Midnight Choir


Notes: Poem Source: Boston Poetry Slam. Photography: Feelslike