I Am Busy
I
am
busy,
too stressed out,
working on errands,
tiring chores, honey-do lists,
spinning plates, juggling balls, throwing out garbage - no
time to write, just Fibonacci in palindromes. In Fibonacci, just write to time,
no garbage out. Throwing balls, juggling plates, spinning
lists, honey-do chores, tiring
errands, on-working,
out-stressed, too
busy
am
I.
Today I'm also featuring a poem by Joseph Harker, and I encourage you to visit his excellent blog Naming Constellations. He is also doing daily posts for Poetry Month, and this is one of the new poems he's writtten:
Karma
My mother swings off-course and cries, fresh corn!
The sign hangs awkward, painted red and white:
she knows the market. We are sometimes born-
again to local farms, lapsed converts sworn
then swayed and swayed again. A secret right,
an unpaved road, the farmer’s gingham wife
up to our window. Taste this, have a bite–
but we crave corn. The wife sighs, money’s tight,
we had to sell. Instead, she has black plums
like far-off planets ready for the knife.
Of course, desire denied is hard-replaced:
but see the yard, the house. My mother thumbs
through dollars: we’ll make cobbler, or still-life.
The fruit is passed; my mother’s hand, embraced.
[Used with permission of the author]
The sign hangs awkward, painted red and white:
she knows the market. We are sometimes born-
again to local farms, lapsed converts sworn
then swayed and swayed again. A secret right,
an unpaved road, the farmer’s gingham wife
up to our window. Taste this, have a bite–
but we crave corn. The wife sighs, money’s tight,
we had to sell. Instead, she has black plums
like far-off planets ready for the knife.
Of course, desire denied is hard-replaced:
but see the yard, the house. My mother thumbs
through dollars: we’ll make cobbler, or still-life.
The fruit is passed; my mother’s hand, embraced.
[Used with permission of the author]
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