Tim's Creativity Playground

Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Poem: March 27, 2019

So Little, So Much

Writing a poem is a prayer
to understand first, and then to be understood,

to examine the world with a microscope
and then place it on a map,

to open your ribcage and grasp an organ
and then place it in someone's lap,

to create a tiny dictionary that will become,
at its best, a constellation,

to get up in search of legroom
and find yourself doing the foxtrot,

to whisper the aching question,
and to be a given an echo in return.

Tuesday, March 26, 2019

Poem: March 26, 2019

Meditation

You might think I'm joking (Mr. Schedule and Routine),
but I really like the idea of being idle and thinking
quiet and lingering thoughts that percolate over
the course of days, steeping in themselves, getting
better with age. I like the idea of laying in bed
all morning, the cats at our feet, waxing philosophical,
or of long walks in state parks with nothing to do
and no pictures to take. I like the idea of canoes
on long rivers and riding for miles on our bikes.
I like to imagine walking down the slow ages of trails
and listening, listening, with no words to be said.
I like the idea of loitering on the front porch at night,
maybe with a book or practicing the guitar, and you
on the swing, sipping wine. And I like the idea
of making love all night, returning to one another
over and over in silent conversation that gradually
melts into the light. I like the idea of sitting still
and of lying beside pools, of passing time working
puzzles or meditating or sitting motionless by a fire.
I find it easy to romanticize a simple and peaceful life,
and some part of me honestly aches to say that
that is who I am, or at least, who I aspire to be-
Siddhartha content beside the stream and beneath the tree.

Monday, March 25, 2019

Poem: March 25, 2019

Inner Life

Driving to work this morning, headed east on Walnut,
I had the pleasure of seeing an enormous, beautiful
full moon low in the sky between the buildings and trees
on either side, and I thought how the moon would seem
to float like a balloon in a tunnel and make a lovely
photograph if it weren't for the power lines crossing
every several feet overhead, which had the visual effect
of slicing through, or worse, tethering the moon, and
I tried as I drove to spot the perfect location and angle
which would allow an unobstructed view, a realization
of my imagined scene, but for the eight or so blocks,
it wasn't to be found, which could be a point in itself,
but isn't my point for sharing in this case. I'll explain:

We seem to be overly concerned with productivity,
with getting efficiently from point A to point B.
And we have aligned our many resources more and more
over my lifetime to some end that appears to value
a small number of measurable outcomes (money,
grades, followers, speed) and devalues more complex
ways to experience the world (the beauty of imperfection,
the wandering journey, the slow and unstructured nature
of dinner conversation, play). And don't we feel lesser
when we don't have money? And don't we feel guilty
if we waste the day? And we've built a world to make
sure we are always connected, giving away our attention,
constantly entertained, and leaving no space to be idle,
for our minds to lie fallow and grow richer through
recovery, through the earthy unfocusing of our eyes.

I didn't have the radio on in the car this morning.
I was just driving, and I saw the moon floating so large
over Walnut like a balloon, and I played a game
of perspective that might not have ever been played
or might have meant nothing at all, except that I wondered
why this happened, and then I thought about a John
Berryman poem that said "Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have no Inner Resources." And I thought
about lunacy, and it occurred to me that maybe
that's all wrong. What if boredom is our inner resource?
What if we've forgotten the gifts of feeling bored?

Sunday, March 24, 2019

Poem: March 24, 2019

50 Writing Prompts

Write a poem about...

...a time you bought gum.
...a community of boogers and scabs.
...the sound of the rain filling up your basement.
...a kitchen appliance that wants to be a tree.
...the time you felt like stapling something.
...the entire contents of your junk drawer in 3 words.
...the moon, using only 1-syllable J-words.
...how you feel when you are out of clean towels.
...the many reasons today's music is stupid and boring.
...a moment when your eye unexpectedly itched.
...the many menacing shades of yellow.
...ennui, but in a cheerful way.
...the lesser known health benefits of cigarettes.
...Easter, but don't mention Jesus or bunnies.
...the intricacies of soap.
...a conversation you've had about who's picking up the kids.
...yesterday as if it was today.
...what makes you the same as everybody else.
...your most powerful lesson from your first week of life.
...vegetable shortening.
...the consequences of being such an awesome dancer.
...Harry Potter, using only quotes from the second movie.
...a mole you've recently noticed.
...your least memorable yard work experience.
...a dream you've had that included a monkey, a backpack, and a map.
...telephones that will uplift the entirety of humanity.
...a time you wrote a poem that was taken out of context and used against you.
...the anxiety of adulthood in a way that appeals to children.
...fidget spinners.
...a tattoo you deeply regret in excruciating detail.
...your top ten pogo stick anecdotes.
...the time you came the closest to yelling, "Bingo!"
...a box that isn't really a box because it's broken.
...the beauty of Germanic languages, written entirely in French.
...blood-born pathogens.
...the last man on Earth's access to quality health care.
...your password. Be sure to use lots of details!
...the wetness of water.
...your take on the last episode of Seinfeld.
...someone you admire. Be as vague as possible.
...the civility of apples.
...something you've never experienced, but hope to one day.
...seven.
...how you approach filing important papers.
...why no one ever sends telegrams anymore.
...a pamphlet you once saw.
...your car in the voice of an owner's manual.
...the duplicity of tube socks.
...recycle Mondays.
...the day after a coupon expires.

Saturday, March 23, 2019

Poem: March 23, 2019

Self-Delusion: A Metaphor

I'm not much for bananas, but they remind me of the sun,
of looking out on afternoon beaches from worn wood decks
and drinking rum. So some days at the grocery store,
I can't help myself, and I buy a bunch, still green at the stems
with the optimistic promise of a shelf-life, and I imagine
myself pinching the peel at the bottom and slicing one
into my oatmeal or ice cream, but of course, I don't. Instead,
I bring them home, and they hang like a tropical postcard
on the corner of the baker's rack and turn brown and draw flies
until someone sensible makes the call and puts them in the trash.

Friday, March 22, 2019

Poem: March 22. 2019

My Son, An Appreciation

When I was a kid, my dad was always
picking up odd jobs to supplement
the income he earned as an assistant
professor. It was as common to see
him in a painter's cap as it was
to find him in a tweed jacket and jeans.
He painted houses and helped build
other people's decks. He could patch
a ceiling, snake a drain, or install a fan,
which is to say he was capable, a handy man.
And one day when I was maybe 10,
he took me along to install a new washing
machine at a house in a gated community.
The job probably took half an hour,
but he left with an envelope that held
fifty bucks cash, and in the car, Dad
tapped my head with its white edge
and said, "Let that be a lesson to you.
There are people who will pay
good money to not have to learn
how to do something for themselves."
And mostly that lesson has stuck.
I mean, I've fixed a vacuum and hung
a light. I know my way around
a paint brush. With help, I've built
a bookcase or two. I've sealed leaky pipes.
So when you mentioned the other day
that you were late because you were
working on your girlfriend's car since
replacing the part would only cost
ten dollars and the job was pretty
straightforward to do once you borrow
the right tool, I had to smile and
appreciate what you've clearly become:
capable like Tom, your own handy man.

Thursday, March 21, 2019

Poem: March 21, 2019

Archeology

I like the spaces that run a little wild
or that persist in the gritty corners
of life, like the downtown Y that used
to be part of a high school, with its yellow
1920's yellow brick walls and edifice
that still reads "Gymnasium C.H.S."
I like late night laundromats and
rundown barbershops or any place
that still uses its original radiator,
the places you can find represented in old
postcards or black and white pictures.
I like the buildings that have legacy
ashtrays still built into the walls
and historic bars that haven't hardly
redecorated in the past century.
I like a place with some asymmetry
and a patina you can scrape with a nail.
Even our backyard with its chainlink
access to the gravel alley and the T-shaped
iron post that once anchored the clothesline
hints at the people who did their best
here before us. Those folks, and us,
and this plot of land since 1922. None
of us with the means to completely
change what is here or even maintain it.
We take our hand-me-down home
and make it our own with the occasional
coat of paint or ripping out of carpet.
Spend time a few blocks from larger
institutions and miles from suburbia,
just down the street from the big churches
and universities and government offices,
and you see the way the human tide
collects itself at the edges and under
bridges. You see the benevolent neglect.
Somewhere an abandoned bicycle
tells a story, tells a thousand stories really,
to anyone who takes the time to look.