Posts Tagged ‘problem’




Already the mind

has put on its tool belt

grabbed its manuals,

consulted its experts

and rolled up its sleeves,

but the heart just wants

to know itself,

pours a cup of Sumatra,

sets out another cup,

and waits to see

who will arrive.

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for Barbara Ford



We sit on the couch in the low lamplight

and talk for hours about the heart,

its longing to know and be known.

I watch your hands as you speak, how

your long fingers dance. And sometimes,

my eyes catch on a moth amusing itself

at the edge of the room, content in shadow.

We are both well aware that pain

can also be a blessing, that just because

something is not going right doesn’t mean

it is wrong. There are problems

we will never solve, but tonight, it is not

about the solving of things, it’s about the feeling

of them, the willingness to lean over the edge

of the well-lit world, the thrill of fluttering

in the darkness together.

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Story Problem




If I were paddling a green canoe

traveling a rate of x miles

per hour and you were

in a blue canoe traveling

at a rate of y miles per hour,

and the rate of the stream

was a given, which already

we know is a lie,

how hard would I need

to paddle, in which force equals

d, to make the canoe

a field of rye where we are

wading through golden

waist-high grass

and no longer traveling

in separate canoes?


And let’s say the field

had a breeze travelling

from the west at p miles per hour,

then if I tossed you a dream

and you were standing

due east of me, how long

would it take the dream

to reach you? I know,

not enough facts, and

I have included too many

irrelevant details,

though we both know they’re essential.

This is why math is only good

for certain kinds of problems.

Of course the field was golden.

Though I wouldn’t mind

if it were green, if there

were blue flax flowers

bobbing in the breeze,

a whole river of them

nodding at us as if to say,

yes, that’s right, it doesn’t

make sense, that’s okay,

that’s okay.

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It was so lovely, the home

I built in the arroyo,

such smooth golden plaster

I worked with my hands,

such luster in the wood.

I had been told, of course,

about the chance of flood. Perhaps

some part of me felt relief

when the current finally came—

first a hum, then a roar,

then the splintering din,

and then only vehement rush.

What does the soul want, really,

but to join with the wild flood?

Regret can only tread for so long;

this now is what life wants.

An uprooted tree, a hand carved beam—

both serve as well for a float.

Now whatever the water says,

that is where I go.


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