Pea Essss

I forgot to add this poem to list four.

* Eating Poetry
by Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Sunday loves

1... This video is magical.

2... Audrey Kawasaki3... Adolie Day illustrations.


4... Retro inspired hoodies (an etsy stumble that I wish I could remember!)


5...

Why I Am Not a Painter by Frank O'Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

(1971)

Hope everyone is having a lovely holiday weekend! We've been exploring under the sea, partying with friends that feel like family, re-arranging the living room (again), working on a lovely shawl, and getting hair cuts.

Tomorrow I'm looking forward to time to myself in this re-invented space to get myself organized and in my zen place.

Walk barefoot and eat gummy bears.

today

the rain today
a quiet awakening, dreaming of peace
of a new beginning

quietly, tiny cat paws disturbing
only dust

muted light kitchen window
a fairy presence

caterpillars salamanders
long legged
scraped knees

because of droplets caressing leaves and lullabies

Feast on your life.

Love After Love

The time will come when,
with elation you will greet yourself
arriving at your own door,
in your own mirror and each will smile
at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread.
Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger
who has loved you all your life,
whom you ignored for another,
who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the
bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

-Derek Walcott