Humble down,
I tell myself.
Love this.
~ Marjorie Stelmach, from “Divestments of Autumn,” Beloit Poetry Journal (vol. 67, no. 1, Fall 2016)
Notes: Poem Source: Memory’s Landscape. Photo: Mennyfox55
Tag: acceptance
I have packed my bags, I am out of here. Gone.
I have had it with perfection.
I have packed my bags,
I am out of here.
Gone.
As certain as rain
will make you wet,
perfection will do you
in.
It droppeth not as dew
upon the summer grass
to give liberty and green
joy.
Perfection straineth out
the quality of mercy,
withers rapture at its
birth.
Before the battle is half begun,
cold probity thinks
it can’t be won, concedes the
war.
I’ve handed in my notice,
given back my keys,
signed my severance check, I
quit.
Hints I could have taken:
Even the perfect chiseled form of
Michelangelo’s radiant David
squints,
the Venus de Milo
has no arms,
the Liberty Bell is
cracked.
~ Father Kilian McDonnell, “Perfection, Perfection” from Swift Lord, You Are Not
Notes: Photo by Ravshaniya (Uzbekistan) (via Mennyfox55 and Avax.news)
Riding Metro North. And dragging it around.
Who are we, really? Who is dragging this body around.” (Zen Koan)
4:55 am.
Just another Hump Day in August, but less torrid, and pleasant, really.
It’s a short walk to the station. The digital counter on the wrist flashes Step # 63, a reminder of the failure to reach 6500 steps by last day’s end.
A Lady, in her early 30’s, hair still damp, rushes onto the crowded train car, steps over the gap, looks down the aisle, lets out a sigh. She sets down her bag and stands. You watch. She stands. And stands. And stands. This weekend you opened the mailbox to find junk mail inviting you to join the AARP, and flung it with disgust into the recycling bin. Hey, at least she wasn’t pregnant.
The 7:30 morning meeting is cancelled, 15 minutes before start time. The same meeting requiring you to catch the first train. You launch an e-missile punctuating the finish with an exclamation mark. Shrapnel hits the target — its impact boomerangs in a Return To Sender. Necessary?
You interrupt another mid sentence, again and again, to steer the discussion and to drive the pace. What is it that is so unsettling that flows in your blood? Continue reading “Riding Metro North. And dragging it around.”
Sadly, Truth.
Saturday Morning
Love, these lines
accompany our want, nameless
or otherwise, and our waiting.
And since we’ve not learned
how not to want,
we’ve had to learn,
by waiting, how to wait.
—Li-Young Lee, from “The Waiting” in The City In Which I Love You
Notes: Poem: Thank you Beth @ Alive on All Channels. Gif: Newthom