Spatula

Spatula- a true story

I've come to regard the spatula as the symbol of unrequited love

Years ago I gave one away- engraved, as a joke, but secretly with my heart on my sleeve.

What better way to say I love you?

It upset me when I learned the recipient used the spatula to cook with- scorched it on the stove- melted the handle in the dishwasher- and I felt the liberating sting of rejection.

Sometime later a young man, tall and gangly- adorable in the way a new foal is- gave me a spatula of my own.

Beautiful olive-wood- smooth and swirled grained- and I felt my heart break when I realized what it meant.

Now more than a decade later I still use it- and every time I do I think of how careless I was with his heart, and I take special care to oil the wood and hand wash only- penitence for what could not have been.

For Giving

"Forgive me," does not mean "I'm sorry".

This Is Just To Say

It's Friday and that means it's time for another Poetry Appreciation post. Keeping it simple today; that's one thing I love about poetry- simplicity. Saying only a few words, yet speaking volumes. Today's poem, "This Is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams, is one of my favorites because it is crisp and fresh and flavorful much like the pilfered plums. Take a moment to savor it.

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

 for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

Rage

Rage

Quiet disquiet deep in the pit of my stomach.

My face is stone, my voice is level

but I feel the trembling circuits

sparking on the insides of my elbows.

My hands feel empty, weightless.

An easy uneasiness that makes

my stomach feel queasy and sick.

My hands want to clasp

the weight of a punch

My lips want to form

the words that will cut

deep to bone.

I want to hurt- and because it is against my nature-

it hurts me instead.

authors note: It is really against my nature to be angry. You probably wouldn't guess it from some of the poems I have posted, but poetry really is an outlet for me so that I am NOT angry in my real life. This little number was written back in 2008 when I was working as an ISS supervisor in MT. There was this one kid who knew just what buttons to push and he took such delight in pushing them. Fortunately, with a few calming breaths and this poem, he escaped with his life and very little visual reaction from yours truly. 

Safeguard the ones you love

Washed my hands at a fast food joint today- the same tangy smell of late summer nights in rural Idaho, waiting for the

Single bathroom to wash the itch of irrigation canal from dirty feet. 

I sure miss you- the smell of your soap, mingling with dinner and (heaven help me) cows- the mineral taste of well water and Cheerios gone soggy. 

A little time machine in the Arby's restroom in Missoula Montana. 

Authors note: grandma griffin only bought Safeguard. 

What the Mirror Said

Every Friday I am going to post some poetry appreciation, highlighting a favorite of mine and telling you a little bit about why I like it. Today I share with you What the Mirror Said, by the fabulous Lucille Clifton. This poem was first introduced to me in 2000 by one of my favorite English Professors, Jack Harrell. In fact, when ever I read it I still hear his slightly nasal tones (and he's completely ruined Bob Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone for me- I always hear his voice instead of Bob's now). Anyway, great professor, great poem. I fell in love with Lucille Clifton's words and they never have left me. I think, to me, that is a token of a  masterful piece of poetry. When you can recall it months, years, and (Heaven help me) decades later.

what the mirror said

listen, 
you a wonder. 
you a city 
of a woman. 
you got a geography 
of your own. 
listen, 
somebody need a map 
to understand you. 
somebody need directions 
to move around you. 
listen, 
woman, 
you not a noplace 
anonymous 
girl; 
mister with his hands on you 
he got his hands on 
some 
damn 
body! 

Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)

Nascent

Nascent

A punishing winter stripped branches naked,

hardened water and blood;

sweet somnolence giving way to a yawning ache behind the ribs.

Then -you.

An ember blown to a rosy glow beneath kindling

meticulously piled by fingers  not yet devoid of hope.

Blooming warmth, and the anticipation

                                                                             of spring.

Authors Note: A SH inspired poem, drawing on experience of meeting a kindred spirit- finding something worth living for. I have to admit that I am slightly embarrassed that I have found my muse in such an unlikely place, and I hope that doesn't cheapen the poetry in anyway. I like to think my poems are universal. 

Comments/ Constructive Criticism is welcomed. Poetry is a fluid art and I am forever open to editing.