sweet potato

I like songs that tell half-stories. This is one of those songs. The specifics still leave space for your own story. It is so charming, and it sends out a clearer mood than message. Listen to it, and if you are like me, you will like it and listen to it several times, and make up characters for it.

Sia-Sweet Potato

She cooks you sweet potato, you don't like aubergine
She knows to boil the kettle when you hum bars from Grease
She senses you are lonely but still she can't be sure
And so she stands and waits, stands anticipating your thoughts

How can she become the psychic that she longs to be to understand you
How can she become the psychic that she longs to be to understand you

He brushes thoroughly
He know she likes fresh breath
He rushes to the station
He waits atop the steps
He's brought with him a Mars bar
She will not buy Nestle
And later he'll perform
A love-lorn serenade, a trade

How can he become the psychic that he longs to be to understand you
How can he become the psychic that he longs to be to understand you

So give her information to help her fill the holes
Give an ounce of power so he does not feel controlled
Help her to acknowledge the pain that you are in
Give to him a glimpse of that beneath your skin

Now my inner dialogue is heaving with detest
I am a martyr and a victim and I need to be caressed
I hate that you negate me, I'm a ghost at beck and call
I'm failing and placating, I berate myself for staying

I'm a fool
I'm a fool

He greets the stranger meekly, a thing that she accepts
She sees him waiting often with chocolate on the steps
He senses she is lonely, she's glad they finally met
They take each other's hands, walk into the sunset

Do you like sweet potato?

poetry 101

In the evenings,

my neighbor and I nod

checking in on the state of ourselves, we inquire

and respond robotically,

he does not sound fine, and neither

am I, but it doesn't matter.

It's understood that there is no room for

more. Our insincerity hangs there, as

we fish for our keys

and then we shut our doors on it,

leaving it to dissipate in the warm butter circle of

streetlight.

My mother's hair curls out in two

even tuffs that are

perfectly symmetrical, when she talks

she looks like she could begin

flying, any moment, with a slight wiggle

of the ear.

My first poetry teacher talked of

the power of suspended images,

sans narrative. Day one he instructed us

on the end of the need for a story.

The next night he broke both his feet

at the Cat and Fiddle

stepping hard on a stair he thought

he saw. (He was wrong.)

He was

replaced.

Now I can't get it out of my head:

our tragic small talk, the streetlight circle,

the wings behind her ears.

All poetry.

It's distracting. I try not to

think about it, though. And I watch carefully for

staircases.

polish

these words are unpolished

like the way I feel

about you, not

mulled through yet

tumbling, though, heavy

through the day they will whir

and knock against other words,

until I return home

exhausted and sore

from the clunking concepts

on spin cycle

inside me

(it's always like this, especially

mornings)

and sift through

in search of something

smooth.

wholly.

Sun, morning, spills

Yolk of the world, breaking

over me, sizzling.

The bare bulb behind the stove

softening the whiteness of dawn.

God, I hide my face

from your Holiness. I know.

Besides, I've received

all the guidelines, drawn neat,

and I fall outside.

So I watch Your mountains

tinge pink and green and white

and writhe at

my independent wretchedness.

Isn't this, too

(coffee-soaked confessional of a morning)

Holiness?

No, I'm not boasting of it

What then, shall we sin more?

No, I am just

thankful for

grace and the mountain's graciousness

abounding.

full&complete

On what should be beautiful days of rest, like this Saturday morning, I find my mind moves at its fastest. Is anyone else like this? The first real spot of peace, and I'm off in a million directions: clubs I could start at work, poems I ought to write, books I ought to re-read, friends I can't believe I lost touch with, goals and accolades which I ought to eventually work for, places I should move, letters I've got to write. Mind you, I'm not working on anything this morning, I am simply dreaming, reading a book and drinking coffee. So it's not a productive musing. It's chaotic and guilt-inducing. And mostly, annoying.

A few Januaries back, I resolved to pause for a full and complete stop at every single stop sign. (I live in a town with no traffic lights, so the resolution was sure to be tested.) It was not only tested, as most resolutions are, it fell completely by the wayside (as most resolutions do) and the result of that was a horribly wasted day last spring, slogging through the slowest online traffic school in the history of the World Wide Web.

The goal of my failed resolution was to give myself the reminder to stop. Just stop, even if only for two seconds of the day. The hope was that this habit would work its way into other areas of my life.

I'm invoking the spirit of that failed resolution this morning, to give myself permission to just roll back and feel that pure moment of suspension before I continue racing forward--sip my third cup of coffee, (oh right, my resolution to give up caffiene? failed.) look up at the mountains, and be alright with a full and complete stop.

Life Together- Dietrich Bonhoeffer

One of my favorite things in life is the revisiting of a book. I remember reading Life Together in college, quickly, in order to fulfill a requirement for my summer travel band. I remember loving it, and I remember feeling like there was no better book for a group of college students attempting to meld our personalities (and egos) into a mini-bus for the summer. Bonhoeffer's ideas prove just as profound a challenge to my life today: in teaching, family life, and all relationships.

It is, first of all, the freedom of the other person, of which we spoke earlier, that is a burden to the Christian. The other's freedom collides with his own autonomy, yet he must recognize it. He could get rid of this burden by refusing the other person his freedom, by constraining him and thus doing violence to his personality, by stamping his own image upon him. But if he lets God create His image in him, he by this token gives him his freedom and himself bears the burden of this freedom of another creature of God.

This freedom of the other includes all that we mean by a person's nature, individuality, endowment. It also includes his weaknesses and oddities, which are such a trial to our patience, everything that produces frictions, conflicts, and collisions among us. To bear the burden of the other person means involvement with the created reality of the other, to accept and affirm it, and, in bearing with it, to break through to the point where we take joy in it.

I do not want this world

of swimming words, where meaning

hangs contingent

upon mood. As nice as

misspellings are, poetically speaking,

I want you to know how to spell the words

(as I wash up in all their possibilities)

without hesitation.