Evidence Supporting the Little-Discussed Possibility That I May Not Be a Responsible Adult

I kinda strong-armed Asher into driving back from Longwood Gardens because I was hungry, never mind that he was both tired and hungry...

"When is your inspection?" he asked.

"I dunno. October maybe?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure it's this month. Unless this sticker is wrong."

"Really? Huh. That's... huh. I don't know when I would have noticed that if you hadn't pointed it out."

Inspection Friday.

The Joy of Losing Steam

8:22 pm tonight was the moment when I realized that my brain was too weary to soldier onward.

Now I sit on the couch and contemplate the daisies in the window, the roses on the table, and thank God for thinking when I can't. And I hear this song.

My soul waits, sings, sleeps for tomorrow. There's always hope, always a sunrise to expect, always.

I promised students I'd have some grades ready for tomorrow. I have plans and calls to make and bills to pay. And I already know that all I'll do about it all for tonight is write about it. Right there. Those necessities only get these few lines. This song on repeat.

William Stafford Makes Sense Today (Whereas Yesterday Was a Different Story)

Poetry is about more than the right word. It's about more than keeping interest, or using intricate and precise metaphors.

Poetry is about timing. You may read a poem, and not know right away that you need it. But later, when circumstance has caught up with you, you go searching about in your mind for those precise words, like a spell; because someone already said it, and said it deeper than you can in that hard moment. Maybe they understand what is happening to you.

Today, I was grasping for "that poem about how we're all in darkness, and we need to communicate better. Something about the darkness around us is deep." Thank you, William Stafford and the Internet, for this poem and access to it. It is not quite what I thought it was. But I grasp it tightly anyway, understanding today what would have been impossible yesterday. Even the elephants.

A Ritual To Read To Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

William Stafford

Arctic Wildlife

Prompt Part I. List your favorite words.
frazzled
urbane
franchise
dismember

Prompt Part II. Create a scary story, and use all the words listed.

Aboard the arctic fishing vessel, Jeremy pulled in the haul of cod.He had seen several seals that day, but no sign of Rick, his urbane friend who had begun the fishing franchise, and the brains of the small operation.

Hours passed, and the air temperature dropped, the rocking of the boat would not keep the water surrounding it from freezing in these shallows. Jeremy knew he had little time: he would have to decide now if he were going to stay here all night or get underway. But of course, where could he be?

The frazzled polar bear mother returned to the den with the larger part of a seal carcass which she had hunted to feed her lone cub. At least, she thought it was a seal when she came upon it swimming in the bright blue depths: all alone it was, with a strangely-shaped head. Yet, it appeared, with its sleek black body, to be a seal, though sickly, perhaps, which explained why it was swimming all alone. No matter. She had thought very little about it. Food was scarce, and she had hunted for days. 

But as she dismembered it, it tasted so very strange. And it had two strange layers of skin, the outer of which tasted so terrible that she nearly dropped it back into the depths.