NaPM April 26 2015

[rayheinrich]

It seemed the right thing to do at first - 
so many hungry kittens in the world
without a home, stretching 
and rolling on their backs in the hot sun

did I just leave the door open 
and let them come in or did I venture
out and rub their warm bellies 
or offer them the last slice
of balogna from the package?

The house is not overly large -
perhaps just the right size 
for a single man and a cat
to keep him company
but much too small for the hundreds

lounging on the counters
and scratching the newel posts
into some new sculpture
that only cats can understand.

A man may never own a cat
 but he can own a house
with a quick running stream in the back yard
and a dozen burlap sacks
and a stack of bricks.

People, such as I, who live with an exceedingly large number of cats, cannot fault thee.

These lines are just a bit transcendently sublime:

"...and scratching the newel* posts
into some new sculpture
that only cats can understand."



*I had to look up 'newel'.
I can't imagine having missed it all these years... illiteracy never sleeps.

[ellajam]

A child follows the tide
burrowing with fingers
where bubbles in the sand show
here are pipis. Soon her skirt
is filled with shells, plump,
curved, perfect.

Dreaming of the feast of them
cooked in sea-water, sprinkled
with vinegar, peppered,
chewy, salty, sweet meat

she heaps her harvest
in the middle of the beach,
bends and gathers more
until again her skirt is full

and turns
to add them to her tally –
the heaped treasure is gone;
the pipis have hidden,
the beach lies empty.

                            < recipe >
                       
                        we're bakers
                        my wife and I
                        snug in our kitchen
                        among the flour and our implements
                        the timer set for measuring
                        in clicks and dings
                        the loaves in hours
                        rising ruled
                        like us
                        the leavening
                        it rises us as well
                        the window
                        and its morning sky
                        with its cool breath
                        the oven with it's hot
                        we close our eyes
                        and open it
                        and feel its heat
                        our thoughts confined
                        to dough and fingers kneading
                        punching down the coming loaf
                        to thinking all the thoughts
                        that touching makes
                        that memories upset
                        our eyes
                        precise and absolute
                        the certainty of dough
                        its stickiness
                        and here it's almost noon
                        the light
                        the open window
                        with a warmer breath
                        the oven stays the same
                        our eyes
                        and what appears through them
                        our view of life
                        as life flies out of us
                        and what we see
                        we see
                        and seeing changes
                        with the baking loaves
                        the light that leaves
                        us still alive
                        the heat
                        the oven
                        how the sweat of bodies mocks
                        our silly sweating hearts
                        we laugh
                        like valentines
                        like love
                        comes pouring in from
                        memories invited by the scent
                        the loaves again
                        the oven and the dinging time
                        that must be answered
                        yet we stand
                        we've stood here
                        in this kichen
                        all our lives
                        our tiny world
                        we follow it
                        and listen to
                        the language of the cook
                        of bakers
                        simply making what they make
                        ignore the world
                        accept its light
                        the window and its
                        breath much cooler now
                        the oven still the same
                        but more appreciated now
                        the years have come
                        they've traveled through us
                        made us bakers
                        in the shape of loaves
                        though now we've firmed
                        and settled some
                        the clouds
                        so deeply colored now
                        our eyes connected
                        here it comes
                        the sunset through our window
                        and the timer dings
                        the loaves are done
                        we're bakers
                        and our bread awaits

                                - - -

I enjoy reading this whole page. The two above are so successful at bringing me into the poem through my senses and, once there, giving me something to think about. Thanks for writing and posting them.