An old bicycle, a warm meal, some time to talk

Linking to this one, as I don't want to mess up the formatting on pasting.

[Wowie. Such depth of compassion.] 

From "All Good Slides Are Slippery" by Lemony Snicket

Poetry is like a curvy slide in a playground--an odd object, available to the public--and, as I keep explaining to my local police force, everyone should be able to use it, not just those of a certain age. 

In general I am suspicious of anything written specifically for children. It is, of course, acceptable to write something to a specific child--"Dear Elizabeth, I have reason to believe this cake is poison, so please leave it alone and I'll take care of it later"--but things written by someone who is thinking only of children far too often have an unfortunate tone. If you have ever seen an adult hunch over and begin talking to a child in the high-pitched voice of an irritating simpleton, then you know the tone I mean. It is a tone that takes the fun out of everything, even everything fun.

--

Poem

I'm in the house.
It's nice out: warm
sun on cold snow. 
First day of spring
or last of winter.
My legs run down
the stairs and out
the door, my top
half here typing

--Ron Padgett

More: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/article/246328

Burden of his needs

Ahhh.

his fingers grasping the metal cord tight

So desperate. So effective.

Risking delight

In the face of human suffering, in the face of the pain in the world and the threats under which we live, how can we take delight, find pleasure in music and poetry? I love when Gilbert says, "We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but not delight. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world." What is being defended there finally is poetry itself. The very human need to sing.

Atavism

I always was afraid of Somes's Pond: 
Not the little pond, by which the willow stands, 
Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands 
In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond. 
There, when the frost makes all the birches burn 
Yellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shines 
Like a polished shell between black spruce and pines, 
Some strange thing tracks us, turning where we turn. 

You'll say I dream it, being the true daughter 
Of those who in old times endured this dread. 
Look! Where the lily-stems are showing red 
A silent paddle moves below the water, 
A sliding shape has stirred them like a breath; 
Tall plumes surmount a painted mask of death.

--Elinor Wylie

Pregnant Pause

In the presence of certain people
with whom I’m more or less
expected to some degree converse,
the silence contains too much room. 
Space for a life’s supply of stock 
tickers—one for every potential investment. 
Still I typically default.

In the presence of my self only,
interval is everything. It’s all there is. 
The room, of course, is staggering.
But it’s often like August: you can 
hang your hat, take a nap.

--me

First Weeks

To my son

They tell me it’s about getting past this part. 
That once you’re 3—4—6 months old
it’ll just be so fun. You’ll interact.

And yet, while there are things
I wouldn’t choose to stand
amid (colic, whole feeds rivering up),
why would I want to rush your arrival to the place 
where sheet cakes and drone wars begin? 

Yesterday you lifted your head
off my shoulder and held it there briefly
(toward one of their “milestones”)
and I smiled, though a real sadness ran through. 

Later, alone on your back in a dim room, 
you stared unblinking at “your poster”—
depiction of deep space that transfixes you daily—
as I watched from the other side
of the cracked door. 

They tell me it’s about getting past this part.
I tell you to take your time.
Whatever, however it is for you, 
I hope it holds. I hope you hold it
as long as you possibly can,
before the world, this world, crashes in.

--me