In Motion: Bellingham, Poetry, San Juan Islands, Ted Talks


Sunday, July 17, 2011

Poetry: Alarm

For about 12 years I spent two hours or more a day commuting to work, just sitting in traffic 10 hours a week, 40 hours a month!  This poem is a window into that "zombiefied" lifestyle, something I've been freed from for over three years.  How wonderful to have that time returned to me:

Watching the clock
waiting for time to
catch up with me:
Breakfast time.
Traffic time.
Working time.
Lunch time
More working time
Leaving time... finally here.

Time drags along
like a leashed cat
never taught to heel

Coming home late
the house dark
My kitchen smells like
the dinner missed

Opening a window
a breeze floats in
scent like rain on the black top,
dust and wet at the same moment

Pouring myself into bed
next to one already asleep
a new rhythm starts.

Breath bellows in and out
Fresh replacing exhausted
In a room absent of fluorescent

Moon glowing through
slits of blinds
patterns across the nightstand
where the alarm clock sits

Not a clock only
nor an alarm, but both.
It's red eyes watching
as I toggle its hated button

Alarm clock: sound and visual aide
that announces my next destination.
A location I've purchased no ticket for
but a price has been paid.

Eyelids close
Mind opens
Dreams dreamt,
too quick to absorb

Time races out of the gate!
I am the slow one now...
5 a.m. comes too early.

Quickly get on the carousel!
Around I go into another day,
following the sun,
while wishing for the moon.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Poetry: Brick

"Bay Street Brick
is what I am.
Over 100 years old
painted thirty-two times.

"Worn down, graffitied
Rain and wind
have tried their best to dissolve me,
none more effective than time

"This archaic building needs me no more!
It could still stand strong
with the absence of ONE.
The Builders that placed
me here did wrong"

"Bay Street Brick,
a vacation I  need!
Perhaps to be a part of
a patio in Costa Rica,
or the frame of a family's backyard BBQ?

"I could retire in a
garden wall with a view
of a timbered Tudor home.

"If I had legs to travel on,
or a mason to see my true potential
Hands to move me about the globe"

"You dream too loud!"
Scream the other bricks,
"Don't demean your position.
You are directly at a pressure point
holding up the wall

"If you left the strain would be too much.
This building would fall into the street-
the building that is US!

"Crushing passers-by,
the Builders that walk by us all hours
the Wise Ones that placed us"

The Bay Street Brick
considers the words of his
brothers and sisters born of
the same mash

Gravity pressing all five sides
Painted face hidden behind
too many of other's... colors

"US is stronger than one" it says,
"Travel is only afforded
those with Legs of Men"

Brick becomes quiet, withdraws
Folds aways its vision of vacation
holds the building up another 100 years,
in sleep...


Sunday, July 3, 2011

Poetry: Reinhart’s Cup

A green cup
A handle for holding
Ridges? Simple decoration.
Held eight ounces easily
This was your Grandpa’s cup.
He loved that cup.

The coffee doesn’t taste right to me
Defected glaze, mother said,
Don’t try to drink from it.
I used it to hold my pens.

She removed the pens and scissors
That had been stabbed into place
She turns it upside down
A paper clip on the bottom shakes out
Here, you can have it,
If you want it.
Yes I do

Objects from loved ones
Transmit on a frequency
Like a radio to the past
Grandpa drank his black
Leaning against a tractor step
Two hours of work already put in
The sun not even half way to noon

A Minnesotan neighbor made the cup
Hand thrown with love
Fingers shaping the shell to life
I’ll take it, thank you
Better than a cup of any ol’ Joe.
Reinhart’s cup is welcomed here.

photo credit: