The Summer Day

By Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t exactly know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Missing Cat

The sign simply said, Missing Cat. Reward. With a number to call.

Underneath, there was a picture of a cat so black it blended in with the dark background, and only a pair of yellow eyes looked out from the poster.  

Someone anxiously edited the sign with a green marker and added the word, Still.

Cheap Band-Aid

His eyes welled with tears that refused to fall.  Men don’t cry.  Yet, there they were, tears. 

Real, big, and wet splashy drops.

There was something about his light hair and emerging pain that reminded me of someone else.  I wanted to wrap him in my arms and whisper, “It’s going to be ok,” knowing that the words would be a lie.

And it was wrong to lie, except when…

I paused to consider the times for which this rule was meant to be broken and was only able to summon instances that were superficial, meant to save face and limit discomfort, short-term fixes to things that required permanent solutions, like a cheap band-aid to hold together a gaping wound.    

So, I told him the truth and watched his tears fall.

 

Velvet handcuffs

Invisible and binding

growing tighter as I shrink

Cut past flesh and bone

These bonds

oppressive and unbearable

serve as

Constant reminders of my price

Prioritize

the three i’s
have decided
that we will
work no longer
much to the
distress of our
dear, darling husband

finicky eaters

Separated by sixty years
The two are practically one
She prefers her Jello green
While his Heineken must be cold
Neither eat real food
And yet they both have energy
to be constantly
Charming and cantankerous
Indulged and indulgent

Here are some links if you found this post looking for help with your picky eater-

For kiddos:

http://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-living/childrens-health/in-depth/childrens-health/art-20044948

http://www.webmd.com/parenting/features/feeding-a-picky-eater

http://www.livescience.com/10286-handle-kids-picky-eating.html

For adults:

http://abcnews.go.com/blogs/health/2012/10/26/adult-picky-eater-will-only-consume-three-kinds-of-food/

http://www.nbcnews.com/id/40357712/ns/health-diet_and_nutrition/t/grown-eat-kid-you-may-have-selective-eating-disorder/#.VONSwfnF9nI

http://blog.brainfacts.org/2013/07/the-biology-of-picky-eating/#.VONUNfnF9nI

Image: quoteko.com

Morning Mister

The man whistled
In the bathroom
Pleased with his work

dead eyes

Dead Eyes,the number cruncher,
Pleads for compliance
In a flat voice
Capable of compelling only those who are his equals into action.

He belongs with individuals of like minds, dull and metallic.

Dead Eyes is in the right field,
Surrounded by the wrong people,
As in people at all.

He is a robot trapped in a human body, deserving of the same amount of compassion as he is able to give.

Let us hope that the eyes are not the windows to the soul, for the sake of dear Dead Eyes, the number cruncher.

Humble Pie

Humble Pie

O, how I hate the taste of it.
Yet I find myself with a constant mouthful of the stuff.
It makes words difficult to form
especially the ones that rhyme with thorry and thwong.

trapped

A pick-up truck full of hay
driving through the middle of the city
seems as out of place
as the temperature controlled farm of cubicles
in which I am trapped
until 5:00PM
tonight