wisdom

animate nation

Dear Empty Coffeecup
I see you

At the end of my arm cradled in my hand tilted questioningly

A sliver of last sip smirking at me 

You are in queue behind other hand raisers

Snow Filleddriveway

Overloaded Dishwasher

Ripe Litterbox

Bag of Work in the front foyer

And the Mind that Thought it wise to bring school shit home over the March Break ‘just in case’

Also needs emptying.

storage solutions for emotional baggage part 1

when crisis arrives
it's often in 
svelte boxes. 

stealthy. 
well packed. 
air tight. 

each misdirection 
framed with
instruction, paired
with pictures, 
numbered,
itemized. 

it makes the process
seem so
logical. 

fasteners and spacers
are codified,
in sealed plastic 
sleeves. 

warnings 
against leaving children 
unattended
around sharp pieces
are printed on
the paper instructions
and 
the storage bag. 

once built, 
there are also cautions
against
letting children
climb up,
or on,
the item.

unless it 
is a bed, 
then don't climb
the headboard
and definitely 
don't play under
it.

there's safety
in redundancy.

outcome assured,
sore back
notwithstanding.

missing pieces?
there's a 1-800 for that.

need help building?
check the website, 
forward slash, 
helpdesk.

lay out the pieces, as numbered.

grab 
a Robertson screwdriver.
or is it a Phillips?
grab 
the one with the cross,
not the square.

the flat head,
the simplest tool, 
is never needed.

guaranteed 
that the tip 
will skip 
at least three times,
easily removing skin
from bone.

storage solutions
instead of 
problem solving.

orbit

  twshhhhhhh

         wshhhhhhh

thoughts go out
  twshhhhhhh

and return
         wshhhhhhh

eager tides
  twshhhhhhh

help me learn
         wshhhhhhh

feelings need
  twshhhhhhh

space to churn
         wshhhhhhh

when I feel
  twshhhhhhh

not enough,
         wshhhhhhh

overwhelmed
  twshhhhhhh

life's too tough
         wshhhhhhh

smiling wide
  twshhhhhhh

feeling rough
         wshhhhhhh

I was taught
  twshhhhhhh

by the sea
         wshhhhhhh

another wave
  twshhhhhhh

will soon be
         wshhhhhhh

on its way
  twshhhhhhh

back to me.
         wshhhhhhh


twshhhhhhh

         wshhhhhhh

soil

from across the aisle i hear rapid percussion. a dull downpour. the grocer, a kid, maybe 16, hefts a wax coated cardboard box to eye-level and tips it forward with the precision of a dump truck. a red onion rolls past my toe. it disappears under a shelf. lucky bugger escaped, i think to myself. 

a memory surfaces of potatoes bouncing into a blue milk crate. crickets and cicadas cut the air into high pitched rhythms, pulses and sustains. my babcia's humming and muttering setting a tempo for the beat. once in a while she glances over her shoulder, eyes the crate, then me, then the crate, 'potrząsnąć'-she says. shake it. the contents roll around each other, some leap headlong tumbling into the dirt trenches at my feet. 

now, i imagine the relief of their roots reconnecting with the dirt. a moment of communication, reconnection. 

then, i just wanted to get the job done as quickly as possible. scooping them up, stealing their hope and sealing their fate, before she noticed. she glances again and i know i have to shake them again. 'cichy' -gently, she reminds.

he watches me for a really long time. i work in gridlines. left to right. top to bottom. i wonder if he wonders what i am looking for. one by one i check, and pile, and order and categorize 100 avocados. i know what i am looking for. uniform brown skin, soft crown and bottom, a slight give to the flesh, a green seat under the loosened stem.

even a potato deserves dignity. it demands an understanding. she understood this.

he doesn't.

i pack up my brood and mention to him that an onion escaped under the shelf. 'no problem, i got it' -he says. i pay and as i pass out the sliding doors i can still see the onion sitting motionless in hiding. the young grocer has moved on to the next aisle likely forgetting his promise.

stand

what grows 
from a buried 
heart?
a stand 
of spruce
birch oak
in silent
congregation
impart
like elders
leaning in
sharing upstretched
dignity.
bent by wind
clenched by cold
quenched by rain
young and old
maple pine
swapping stories
signaling
forgotten times
and fragile futures.
i imagine
the secret of trees
is that they see
themselves like
a family
in the forest
ensouled
entwined and
buried root
down
still dreaming
in seeds.