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Posts Tagged ‘present moment’

 

Mom, just relax. Let me take you to a place where there are no bunions, no bruises, no violence, no Donald Trumps, no unhappy thoughts.

            —Vivian Trommer, 10

 

 

Start with the scent of chanterelle cream sauce

still lingering from dinner. Throw in a few stars—

you can’t see them, but you know they are there.

 

Add a tickle. A giggle. A kitten-ish squeal.

Rub tenderly. Then hard. Then forget for a while

to rub. Add a hum, and the dark that can’t enter

 

the room. Add moon. And cocoon. An impending

soon. And the sound of the river never ending.

An inkling of joy. A hunch of perfect. A hint

 

of this can’t last. Choose that. Distill to precisely

this moment. Any sorrow or pain

that might wish to rise, it is only a background

 

flavor that shows up how sweet this magic,

how sometimes the best recipe is the one

that uses exactly what we have on hand.

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Golden Tanka

just before they are gone,
I treasure them most,
the aspen leaves—
please let us not
love like that

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Sing a new song. —Psalm 144:9

That song I sang
so long, so long,
so brimming with
sincerity,
I hardly can
recall the tune …
though it was something
like duh dum,
duh dum, duh duh dum …
or was it duh dah dum
duh dah dum …
I almost forget
I knew the song
at all, except
today a strand
of tune wound round
my thoughts just like
a scarlet ribbon
tied around
the pinkie finger
reminding me
I should remember
something, something
once so vital,
so important
now a blurry
memory.
And then the errant
strand of tune
was gone. Gone?
How could it end?
I sang it everywhere
I went. I lost
myself in its glissando,
fermata, sforzando
and painississimo.
I sang it ferocious,
I sang it tender.
The song, it was
my everything,
That’s all I can
remember.

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When I think
of all that had to happen
to constellate this moment

in which I stand
beside the road
with my whole face

buried in the lilac bush
I almost weep
overcome by the pure

purple sweet of it all,
how perfect, how
unlikely it all is—

from the star exploding
to the first simple creature
pulling itself out of the sea

to the seed being planted
before my parents met
to the woman who is me

finding her way
to the shoulder of highway 145
where the sun has just set

and the bushes are heavy
with good perfume
and the air is still warm

and the stars are just
beginning to show
their old light.

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