So much yelling.
Shouting over everything.
No one listening.
The quiet ones speak.
Their voices gain strength.
They will be heard.
Not through shouting.
No.
Consistently speaking.
Saying in their quiet way.
The changes that are coming.
They remain calm.
The shouters keep shouting.
Changes will come.
The thoughts that I can do this.
I should do this!
I can do this!
I did some of it.
A little more done.
Eh! It’s too much work!
I don’t have the time right now.
I’ll get back to it later.
…
A year later upon review
“What was I thinking!”
When the lettuce wilts in the fridge.
The carrots get all slimy.
Cucumbers give off that horrible smell.
You find mold on the tomatoes.
The bottle of dressing won’t open
because of leftover caked on residue.
All because you reach for the bag of chips instead.
It moves across the foot trafficked carpet.
Rolling on top of the dirt trapped between fibers.
It draws them out from their hiding places
as they scream silently from this intrusion.
The hurricane forces sucking the very life
out of the microbial germs that sought to merely live.
After a time it ceases to roar
The contents it had acquired removed
before it is placed back in its resting spot
ready and waiting for the next hunt for dirt and cleanliness.
When I say I am strange,
They nod their heads wisely.
When I say I am not normal,
They concur in an agreeable pomposity.
When I say I am ill,
They laugh and tell me it’s all in my head.
Yes.
Yes. It is!
It is all in my head
and they won’t listen to me!
Which is why I get no help for the illness
that hurts me the most.
The delight when they taste it.
The smells it wafts through the house.
The love behind the cooking.
The wonder and pleasure as they finish
Every
Last
Morsel.
Whether you cooked for them
Or they for you
Food is a language that shares the love we have for each other.
You can share it in the Sahara.
Or on an Englishman’s patio.
A waft of steeped leaves
Makes a nose twitch in anticipation.
A gentle douse of sugar
For those with a sweeter tooth.
A dollop of milk for others
Who grew up with different traditions.
Any which way
It allows a conversation to brew
And nothing is purer than that.
It is Dark and Mysterious.
Travel through the world.
Like a Roomba.
Sharp items attached.
Spinning and hurting everyone who approaches.
No one is safe.
I will hide until this mood passes.
Or not.
The philosophical question of the ages.
Our current reality begs the answer.
Virtual Reality versus In Real Life.
When our experiences are null and void
because we can not record them for posterity!
To the society at large
We are not even a speck of dirt.
We are a blip in the matrix
and then we are gone.
You are cool.
The confidence is amazing.
You purple haired lady
you look fantastic.
Tattoo beard man
I like your style.
Little girl
you have pink hair
That is awesome.
My grey hair?
Natural.
But thank you for the compliment!
Saturn's Premier Poet 