1.1.2012 I got one of those elliptical machines today. After whisking out the checkbook to write the date, I ask the clerk, what date is it today? A silly questioning look. He stares at me, quizzed. New Year's day, my dear. He says. Happy New Year. And quite honestly, I am lost in the days. The elliptical machine is a sign that I'm probably shrinking away from the outdoors, quietly convincing myself it's for the best: get fit in 2012. Be mindful of your years, I remind myself. The days are getting shorter.

Suds

By Aggy Waggy · 20 minutes ago

Easing  into the bubbly water

Awkward,  bobbing, then 

Stiffening at the first sensation of  weightlessness

This,  slowly gathering the bubbles around us

You started to talk about retirement

and long  naps.

I slid about at first, pretending not to float,

Then , loosening the the tug of guilt

We sank into the afternoon, released.

November 3, 2011

She Said She Said

We have things to say to each other

Hewn out of the hollow, dreamt in darkness

In between breaths, when we are on the edge of sleep

There are thoughts that take over when our hands are busy 

We remember these thoughts when standing in line

At the bank, or at the waiting station, in between errands

There are indeed things we have to say to each other

The small, kind words, the gentle reminders of care

Murmurings, sweet and musical with laughter

There are words that heal and protect

Stated like prayers, the comfort and soft

Pillow of affection, tied up in a ribbon, offered

Then there are those that rise out of thin air

Stowed in the back of our minds

Rising to strike and out of nowhere,  breaking hearts

October 15, 2011

______________________________________________

Yielding

Water will not stop just because you build a berm

or a wall to divert it from crashing in

The rain will pour, and rivulets will carve their way

under or over, pushing and rushing

There's a hand that guides the stream

that in the meantime holds it to conform, just as there is another

hand that releases the hold, and lets the dam gush forth.

So it shall be. I will let it be.

I will take this this journey and this walk,

Whatever perfume or magic I find will be the gift

Whatever I find in the end shall be all worth it.

"So I continue to continue, to pretend / My life will never end/ And flowers never bend with the rainfall"

-Simon and Garfunkel

"More than okay: I figure that getting clear about how I can't fight when my number is called to do so, is the first step to figuring out how I can."

- Jeff Nunokawa

October 14, 2011

____________________________________________________________

Perfume

by Aggy Waggy on Sunday, September 18, 2011 at 9:51pm

The smell of the sun on my skin is the drug that brings back happy afternoons

Yellow with sunflowers, sliding down hillsides on waxed boards,

Pine needles and sap stained jeans

Long, golden afternoons at the kitchen table

Sucking on buttered rolls and strawberry jam

Tea, thick and sweet with condensed milk.

I close my eyes and hear the chords played

On the cracked guitar.  The crickets' opus in the guava bush, and

The pulsing, iridescent wings of fireflies,  the few that  softly land on outstretched hands

 By the first show of stars we are hushed by Uncle Pete's story telling hour

And we enter the early evening sun-warmed  and  dizzy from the day's long pull

The moon softly lights the opening dream and there  first star, always punctual,  

Makes its appearance in the pink horizon.

The smell of the sun on my skin is the drug that reminds me of all of these.

Morning Prayer

It is a brighter blue than the blue before the sun
Awakens with a roar, wet tendrils of lake mist
Curl upward, a brief life's sigh
Before the morning lifts its sheets
To find me hanging on to the weight of sleep
Three blissful minutes more
Before eyes pry open wide open
Ears open wide to the sound of sirens
Now much stronger than yesterday's
Sirens hurrying down the street
Screaming of obligations.
I wear duty like a yoke around my neck
It is the badge I wear, a knotted lace where
Mobile and spectacles hang alongside
The necessary talisman.
Thank goodness for the
Thrum of a well oiled truck
That takes me here and there
The comings and goings
To one thousand certain --
and uncertain destinations.
Thank goodness
For this is how everyday starts
Always with a poem and a song
I call on these to sustain me
Until the quitting hour.

whorl

there's a hole in the sky that opens up
somewhere a bucket is emptied,
and a head leans down
to collect pieces
of itself

early morning verse #1

early morning fog
rolls into a dewdrop
slides down a leaf
plops into a ripple



hello sunshine

another wet sunset

parachute

Legs crossed, contemplating the shadows and digits dancing on the wall
Here in the lovely shade of lateral blinds pulled taut
I sit long enough like this


Taking in the shapes within the round, beige dome
This womb I might as well call home
Where days are punctuated by the whir of necessary machinations


Sit long enough like this through eight-hour shifts, by design
The rewards, the promises of good speculation and chrystal orbs
The ones that soften your crash from the rattle and rush of working years


Sit long enough like this, but not so still
Crunch of numbers,  quick,  calculate the good years of service
How many more hours until the golden hour.

On nouveau sushi and food art:

I've been thinking of your pretty lunch

Too beautiful to eat.

I wouldn't know where to start, except that foamy substance
Calls out to me
The one with tiny radishes sprouting out of a seed,

New foam delicately balanced on a chopstick
Dances on the tongue unexpectedly sweet
Lick it once more to savor a taste of summer

Blue

 A ball of teal yarn and The Masterful Flame of Queen Leona, by Umberto Eco.

I have outdone myself.  Seriously - there are approximately 5 knitting projects going on in the house.  One I particularly love (at the moment, my caveat, as I can't have pet projects lest one becomes jealous of the other) is this teal yarn. Malabrigo Teal, in varied shades of blue, indigo.  I imagine the colors fading in and out, but gosh I only have 1 skein. Maybe I will try a cowl this time.












"Poetry is what gets lost in translation."


— Robert Frost