Tag: Poetry

On Dining at Evelyn’s

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

My wife has soundcheck so
I sit in a restaurant above
my paygrade and
remember the fancy days.

I sip a seventeen dollar old fashioned
and wait for my pricy
pork shoulder, (milk-braised),
collard greens, pork au jus,
cornbread crumble
and pray it quiets the
hunger pangs hour six
post-cheeseburger.

I’ve known luxury in random moments.
Veuve Cliquot at Top of the Tower in ‘83.
Irish coffees at that lodge in Aspen.
Lockeland Table on a random Tuesday
to prove I could do Lockeland Table
on a random Tuesday
and not a birthday
or anniversary
or promotion.

My mother married up when I was sixteen,
and we learned that what we
thought was fancy
wasn’t
and what we didn’t even know
to reach for in days past
became the new bar.

And I learned how to act in fancy places.
I learned how to order
wine and what is actually done
with the cork.

Mmmm the pork shoulder is tender
and the greens — poor food made
fancy — who knew they needed
cornbread crumble, basically
cornbread croutons on a cooked
salad I would have passed on before
I knew it was fancy.

I can afford the fancy more
now than ever,
but what used to be ooo-la-la
is now just la-la and
what used to be craving
is now just appreciation.

Capitalism is funny that way.
We strive for something we’re
told we want, something we’re
led to believe is the point of
this life — having money to
publicly consume in a booth
with throw pillows behind a
suspiciously large fiddle-leaf
fig in an over-priced downtown
hotel restaurant.

The pork will be remembered,
but the next day I’ll have a
cheeseburger.
Fancy is fine, but
everyday is lovely
and comforting and
preferred in the long
run.

If I had to choose one,
I’ll take the socialism.

I Love

~ Deb ~ 2 Comments 
I’m never worried that the
squirrels will eat my
birdseed. 
Maybe it’s squirrel seed. 
Why would I use the gas and 
spend the money to
haul home feed for
one species while wishing to 
shoo away another? 

I love nature, not just birds. 

I’ve never worried that the
ants will find the 
hummingbird cocktail.
It’s sugar — what’s not to love?
Why would I fill the glass bulb and
screw on the base and
hang it upside down for
the bumblebirds and not let
the workers have a donut? 

I love life, not just the pretty kind. 

I’ve never worried that other
people will benefit from the 
rights I fight for. 
We’re all in this time together. 
Why would I carry a sign and
march down the street chanting
words of resistance and equality
and not want every body to
experience justice? 

I love freedom, not just mine.

A Rosebush is a Weed

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

A rosebush is a weed
If it grows where there is no need
for roses.

I once saw a British garden show
where the host named plants that need to go
and mentioned rhododendron.

As if the mother of the flowers
born in Appalachian showers
was innately troublesome.

I rid my plot of chamomile
because I don’t grow chamomile,
though I drink it as a tea.

I buy it at the grocery store,
a blend of chamomile and more,
but pull it like a weed.

There’s little to no evidence
advocating the existence
of dandelion in a yard.

But some find it copacetic,
Claim the leaves are diuretic
And toss them with some chard

I pulled a knee-high mimosa
from amidst my prize azaleas,
stars of my floral show.

It would have been a fine tree,
but killed the vibe most certainly,
and so it had to go.

Where there is no need for roses,
Even roses are a weed.
Don’t just bloom where you are planted.
Plant yourself where there’s a need.

Oh, To Have Been ‘Round the Moon

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

How jealous we all were of the crew of Artemis II. To leave this third rock for even an abbreviated fortnight, to see the world without borders, to be pleasantly news-less.

We think we live in unprecedented times. On one hand, we do, and on the other, these times are grossly precedented. We still fight over religion and land and power and politics, like the ancient Sumerians and Egyptians did. Like the Britons and Vikings did. Like the Muslims and Christians did. Oops . . . do.

The only path to peace I know in the midst of it all is to regularly and meaningfully transcend. Exit the gravitational pull. Step away. The Buddhist Heart Sutra gave us the perfectly concise mantra Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha. The meaning is simple: Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone completely beyond. Oh, what an enlightenment.

The most consistent question I receive as an interfaith minister is the question of how we live in this world, how we juggle politics and family, how we maintain bliss in the face of chaos. SHOULD we maintain bliss in the face of chaos. Honestly, I don’t have one go-to answer. I often respond based on how the day feels, what has been shown to me, and/or how the inquiry is couched. I do think we have to be artful with this question — what works one day may not be the next day’s answer.

I do know, however, that the way to be ready for what each day holds is to remember who we are, go into the silence, enter the inner spaciousness where Divine Presence lives in us as us. Succumb to the stillness. Sit still and listen with ears of the heart.

The German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, wrote a poem that serves as a good reminder of what is real in the beyond. Here it is translated into English by Stephen Mitchell:

BUDDHA IN GLORY

Center of all centers, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet—
all this universe, to the furthest stars
all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.

Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
your vast shell reaches into endless space,
and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
Illuminated in your infinite peace,

a billion stars go spinning through the night,
blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that
will be, when all the stars are dead.