I’m mapping out my April calendar, and that includes some cooking for FarmUp 2017. I’m making Chipotle Corn Chowder for one of the meals, and writing that in my notes made me remember this poem I wrote for one of Maj’s classes. Some seriously clunky lines. Maybe I’ll work on it again. In the meantime… here’s a half-done poem from the summer my marriage fell in the fire.
Things I learned from the fire
1. In my other lives I circled wagons around stone rings filled with fire calling soldiers and sharecroppers to my hearth
— what I do, I feed you —
but this last time I lost focus and dropped a hand carved wooden spoon into the log cabin chasm that cradled throbbing coals it slipped from the Dutch oven edge pulling a precious taste of chipotle corn chowder along with it and I wondered did the fire also enjoy the slow pepper burn at the back of its ever-licking tongue.
preparing a dozen
varieties of hot
peppers to make
into flakes for
winter soup and pizza,
gloves otherwise do not rub your
caught again in the
wet web of
thinking as you
stand at the
cutting board knife in
hand asking how much
love is enough
love to keep
us together asking how do I
not love you
enough to make
you stay asking why is
your love sliced
do not turn off the dehydrator then
leave it for five days while you
get lost in your
search for a new
place to call
brittle rings and seeds on mesh
trays in the machine only to
autumn air has
somehow seeped in they have
softened and you
will have to begin the
If Kylo was supposed to become darker or more evil, than why is Han’s death emotionally debilitating instead of invigorating.
That would have been the perfect scene to have Kylo go full darksider. He kills Han, his eyes flash yellow, he stops Chewie’s blaster bolt in mid-air, he chases our heroes with full unrestrained fury, attempts to kill Rey and the only thing that keeps him from doing it is the chasm opening up.
^^^^^ that should have happened if you wanted to convince me that Kylo wasn’t going to have a redemption. Instead, we watched Kylo Ren completely unravel. Story wise it doesn’t make sense to me going another route.
If poetry could amend my visage;
Its rhythm melt away a dozen years,
Allowing prose or rhyme power to bridge
The chasm twixt concupiscence and fear,
I would dedicate my verses for thee;
Endeavouring ever to coax your smile
With little songs proclaiming its beauty –
Confessions composed in a heart beguiled.
But, cursed by time, what words can I bestow
That might defy fortune and win thy kiss?
Lady; you make me more fool than poet;
Courting doom as age mocks my search for bliss.
Oh, Muse; goddess of creativity;
Thy grace shall achieve immortality.
Wayne Barlowe’s visions shows a man with a sublime imagination and superior technique, who so vividly described the fiery halls of the underworld, his paintings doesn’t feel like fantastical creations, but actual reconstructions of Hell, and the fierce awe it inspired in a lonely visitor…
you know what I’m fucking sick to death of politicians and pundits saying we as a nation are too divided and need to work together. that everyone is sad when their side loses, and tomorrow we have to pull together. that it is our responsibility to be more open-minded to those with whom we disagree.
it’s a nice thought, but when one side advocates for the violent oppression of the other, reaching across the aisle is meaningless. when one side fears the other because they’re different and one side fears the other because they don’t want to be killed, there is a bigger problem.
so here’s a different message: you don’t have to be kind to people who want you dead. you don’t have to pull together with those who hate you. you are not responsible for the government’s inability to function. when someone hates your entire being, the bedrock of what you are and what you stand for, when someone is so frightened of your inner light they want to snuff you out you do not have to be kind to them.