NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #7 — Houses and Mirrors



Houses and Mirrors



I dream of houses, empty
except for mirrors and 
the blank white walls
they stare at. 
		
		These houses 
dream only of themselves,
white space 
		and reflection.









Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....



O.P.P. #7 — Charles’ reflection…

Day 7 of National Poetry Month.

And we are looking….and not looking…

Mirrors at 4 a.m.



by Charles Simic

You must come to them sideways
In rooms webbed in shadow,
Sneak a view of their emptiness
Without them catching
A glimpse of you in return.
 
The secret is,
Even the empty bed is a burden to them,
A pretense.
They are more themselves keeping
The company of a blank wall,
The company of time and eternity
 
Which, begging your pardon,
Cast no image
As they admire themselves in the mirror,
While you stand to the side
Pulling a hanky out
To wipe your brow surreptitiously.













NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #6 — No Answer



No Answer



The taste of chalk finds its way 
to your tongue through the back
of your nose after the rain begins 
to hit the hot pavement.

~~~
 
You have missed something. 

Because of this you suffer.

~~~

It is all right with the world. It is as it 
should be and it is not fair and it does 
not matter because fair is not for us.

Fair is not fair. 
Fair or not fair 
is not a fair exchange. Ex-
pectation is false.

All of it is a lie 
in the mind of the past 
about the mind of the future, 
neither of which happens to be present.

The thing is, all the things are not in 
the moment, are not of the moment,
are of course nothing but the moment 
that, passing between us, happens to happen 
when we are not looking, when we are 
absent although we are present, when the
paradox of paradise or the paradise of
paradox in which we dwell or don’t dwell
for ever or never for a moment again

slips by us, slips us by, lisps and 
lists into the future listlessly, help-
lessly, and we are stunned again
into silence, unarmored and stripped 
to our amorous bones just enough to 
dive back in and keep on diving even 
when the pool has no water in it, even 
when the air is as dry as dirt and our noses
crack and bleed and our eyes turn to the 
dust in the holes in our heads for answers 
that are not there for all the looking 

and not seeing, for all the “Look at me,” 

for all the “Nonono. Don’t look at me,” 

for all the 

“STOP LOOKING AT ME!” 

for all the 



“where are you?”






~~~






Of course we do not deserve any of this. 

We suffer anyway. We suffer no matter 
what. In or of or out of the moment, the 
moment is already gone, and it is not fair 
either. It is not square with a hole in it nor
is it a round without. It is a moment that 
we have missed and it is not (fair or not fair) and


it presents itself despite itself
as you stand there,		

alone with the rest of us			

on the hot pavement

after the rain begins.









Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....



O.P.P. #6 — William’s pleasures…

Day 6 of National Poetry Month.

And we’re missing things….

One of the butterflies



by W. S. Merwin

The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn into pain














NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #5 — Rest



Rest



The heart spends more time 
not beating than beating.

The organ that keeps us alive
spends more time resting

than working. Go ahead. 
Hold your breath. Listen 

to it rest. Listen in that space 
between the beats. Hold it 

in your hands. Feel it come 
to rest and seize it softly. 

Feel it move and let it go 
quickly. Don’t hold your 

breath. Listen to the rest. 
This is how the moment goes.

There is just this rhythm 
of life and death. The first 

one-two of every pair 
of heartbeats. Between 

every squeeze of life lies 
a small and quiet death.

This is only the smallest 
of truths. This is only on 

and off. Between beat and 
beat there is only this silence.

Between flex and flex, 
there is only the rest.








Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....



O.P.P. #5 — Stephen’s heart…

Day 5 of National Poetry Month.

And we’re looking in….

In the Desert



by Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;
 
“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”