not a poem, but a p.s.o. (poem-shaped-object)
my new year's day
here, i am sitting and working in our backyard.
least this theme of our backyard seem overstated,
it is not. after dormitory and apartment living
for the last twelve years, there can be no overstating
the wonder and joy this little bit of eden affords
after three and a half years staring out the window
of our san fran apartment, staring at the cvs sign,
watching the sparrows build their annual nest,
watching the traffic and pedestrians, pretending
it was enough. now i know—it was not enough.
here, there is blue sky and white clouds above.
here, there are birds coming, going, singing.
here, there is something resembling grass
and a garden begging for tlc by someone
skilled in the art of gardening (someone like lucy).
here, i sit at the little round cafe table, typing,
though i should be working, and will be working soon.
here, in this world of adobe, i am aware
of the unfamiliar, though salutary, aromas—
and more than aromas—quality of atmosphere
(perhaps nothing more than non-urban). here,
i am pleased, almost, but not quite, beyond words.
on a different note, today, october fifteenth,
is my person new year's day. unlike rosh hashanah,
or the islamic hijri new year, or the chinese chunjie
(thank you wiki), this is my own day in which
i take stock of last year's goals, and look ahead
to the coming year, my coming year.
i will allow goals to come of their own accord,
as need or intent arises, over the course of the year.
this is an accounting. the account looks fair.
we've come here, which was a big decision
under difficult circumstances, are settling in
after a questionable beginning, thanks largely to reina,
who is opening doors for us. i am liking this place,
and fair sure that i am coming under the spell of kokopelli—
or else the high-altitude desert air is making me giddy.
maybe some of each.
i grew up in suburbia. everyone had a backyard,
a front-yard, perhaps a side-yard or two.
there were not shortages of parks and playgrounds.
the sound of soccer moms and the sight
of dogs being walked was a constant throughout
spring, summer and fall. during winter
there was a great deal more huffing to be heard,
and the sight of white clouds of condensation
coming from scarfed faces was equally constant.
that was my norm. this backyard-state-of-being feels right.
continuing the theme of self, a battle of demon
and angels is being waged within. the demon
of politics has my heart a-beating too hard.
i don't want to talk about it. the angels within
continue to celebrate my (unbelievably)
good fortune to be with this amazing woman.
i do want to talk about it, but not now.
suffice to say, it is good. i am lucky and i am appreciative.
there is a voice within, neither angel nor demon,
which says appreciation is well and good, but inadequate.
this year has taken me, virtually (zoom), to synagogue
and mass. here in santa fe buddhism is as present
as catholicism, then there is the unknowable spirit
of natives cultures. it is easy to mock,
but this is a place of spirits and spiritualism.
the voice is nudging me toward a venue
for expressing appreciation, for grappling
with the issues of difficulties and mourning.
we'll see what comes of it. the voice is gentle.
i am taking cues, taking note, being aware.
so, here i sit in our backyard, on my new year's day,
typing, not working, appreciating, summing-up,
wondering what's to come, how we'll cope
if things go wrong next month, knowing we will cope.
in the few moments i've paused to listen and watch
i've been thinking, in particular, of a friend.
as i write about my life i cannot do so
without thinking of this person who is ever-present
in my thoughts. it is a primal. i reach no conclusions,
but acknowledge her as being part of who i am.
it isn't simple. there is happiness and sadness
in equal shares—our futures lie in different spheres.
then there is colin, marcy, colin’s grandfather,
yenny, and someone i haven’t mentioned—mary ann,
my sewing buddy and confidant. i miss all of them.
best get to work—though, it is brisk out here.
a walk might be in order.
work can wait. after all, it is a holiday.
Poetry by one trick pony
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Written on 2020-10-15 at 20:56
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