This week’s Little Vines.
My third-grade photograph torn in two by mistake
my head, separated from my shoulders,
flutters to the floor
even on paper I was always an accident-prone child
a photograph I’ve hidden in the pages of the book
nothing sinister about it
I’m just making arrangements to embarrass you
Bills and bills arriving in every mail delivery
Like a series of minor chords crashing to a crescendo
A dark opus for sure.
what I remember most clearly is this:
the house smelled like cooked cauliflower
and furniture polish.
the spot of red sauce
splattered on page 59 of the library book:
who did it and when?
You are wasting time
sweeping the universe with that giant telescope
because the stars are right here in my eyes
on a miserable night like this
your infuriating narrow-mindedness on every topic
is less important than whether you can drive in snow
Too many flavors
divide and shape my opinions.
I am so confused. Help me.
come take a look at it
it’s changing the whole meaning of this sentence!
the back of his ancient left hand
the paper-thin skin loose over the metacarpals
crossed by a vein of blue-green quartz
this scrawny cheese sandwich
apologizes for its ill looks
offers up a substitute:
how about my friend here, homemade fudge?
is there any topic
they’re not bickering about?
is there a quiet place anywhere in this house?
let the cat continue his nap
lying in a spot of sun filtered by the curtains
he is soaked in the color pink
All I could find to say was in this budget camera
So you see that my apology is made of cardboard
imprinted with my blurry beseeching selfie
the acorn did not need cooking –
the squirrel had no kitchen –
They were made for each other.
we all grew up together
the stale peanut cookie said
I’m the only one who made it to old age
the right eye
I’ve got a few ideas
about why it’s winking at the truth
those ancient bickering sisters
remind me of the washing machine –
cranky and always going around in circles
This notebook. One year. Thousands of words.
The stitching in the spine now unraveling
I discard it. No one is immortal.
6 thoughts on “Little Vines 1/26/21”
Several of these made me chuckle, especially the squirrel one. The one describing the quality of an old person’s skin was very moving. And now I really want some homemade fudge.
Thank you on all counts. I also am thinking about fudge. When that word came up on my notes I immediately thought back to about 1963 and my mother’s fudge, which she rarely made, and we loved so much – I can remember when I first tasted it.
When I was training to be a teacher, the route between my residence and the college took me past a fudge shop. It was one of those ones where you can see them making the fudge in the window. They always had someone outside giving away free samples to passing tourists. They always let me have a free sample every single day despite the fact they knew I was local and that I rarely made an actual purchase – because postgrads are never flush with funds. Since then, I have always thought of that small, regular act of generosity and kindness whenever I make or eat fudge.
Forgive the pun but that anecdote makes the idea of fudge even sweeter, it is beautiful to think of that little gesture and how it still can nourish you these years later.
I always wonder about the things I find on the pages of library books too. And the missing pages! What was on it and why did they remove it? (K)
Yes. Especially older books, when someone has penciled some comments on the pages here or there. Why that need to pass on the opinion is so strong as to write it in the book? And then of course, those odd stains – just as the poem said, who were you who did this?
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