POETRY FRIDAY- A FEW FOUND POEMS

This week, I am unpacking a few of the boxes of books, that have been in the corner of my bedroom for about three months. Unfortunately, unpacking books, for me, often involves more reading than unpacking, and that is pretty much what has happened this time. Ran across Anne LaMott's PLAN B: FURTHER THOUGHTS ON FAITH, which I loved the first time. LaMott's brand of Christianity is about as shiny, and pious, and squeaky clean as mine, which is to say it's none of those things, at all. Anyway, I decided to make found poems…

"Through this Craziness"

"How are we

going to get through

this craziness?"

I asked Father Tom.

There was

silence.

For a moment.

Left foot,

right foot,

left foot,

breathe.

I don't know

who can lead us away

from the craziness

and barbarity.

But I know

that in the desert

you stay out

of the blistering sun.

You go out

during the early morning

and in the cool

of the evening.

You seek

oasis

shade

safety

refreshment.

In the desert

you stay out

of the blistering sun.

************

"Saying Goodbye"

After the loss of her dog, Sadie:

It still hurts

sometimes,

to have lost Sadie.

She was like

the floating garlands

sculptor Andy Goldsworthy

made in the documentary

Rivers and Tides:

yellow and red and green leaves,

connected to one another with thorns,

floating away

in the current

swirling

drifting back

toward the shore

getting cornered

in eddies,

drifting free again.

All along

you know

that they will disperse

once they are out

of your vision,

but they will never be gone entirely

because you saw them.

****************

"Bulbs"

Planting bulbs

always sounds

like a romantic and fun thing to do

but it never is.

The earth is rocky

and full of roots,

it's clay.

It seems doomed

and polluted

yet you dig little holes

for ugly

shrivelled bulbs,

throw in a handful of poppy seeds,

and cover everything over,

and you know

you'll never see them again--

it's death

and clay

and shrivel.

Your hands

are nicked

from the rocks

your nails

are black

with the soil.

December and January

are so grim…

Yet in spring

daffodils

and poppies

are waiting

in the wings.

POETRY FRIDAY is at Julie Larios' THE DRIFT RECORD.