Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Your Little Rhizome Heart

Mushroom Caps
—Poems by Loch Henson, Diamond Springs, CA
—Anonymous Photos


The toxicity of your past
comes to haunt your lungs.

Could it be that the very

objects you cling to from your

past life, in its sentimentality,
are somehow suffocating

What do you gain from such

crowded walkways?  Is the
patch of path remembered
worth the sacrifice?

Somewhere between
jettisoning the past and
making room for the present
is a place you can breathe.



Not every place your tender roots
seek to demand growth
may prove suitable.

Perhaps there’s not
enough sun, too much water,
hazards by way of creatures
who will find you tasty.

Perhaps there’s too much sun,
not enough water,
hazards by way of creatures
who will find you tasty.

And perhaps the little rhizome heart
of you knows before starting
that you have found well-fertilized
false ground.



Say what you will about where
they come from, dreams
are populated with images and
metaphors that mean something
in a language you once spoke fluently.

Why would I turn my back on

subtle information, spoken softly
so that only I can hear?

I sit, pencil in hand, and scribe
what I can of them in the pre-dawn

Elusive as cats, and at least as
finicky, eventually they become
habituated to my alert presence;
not tame, but at least tolerant.

 Sungold Tomatoes


If I could shatter and break down
all the pains and petty trials,
all the annoyances and discomforts,
all the great disappointments,
might they reduce to shards of
something that could serve in another
fashion to alter my perspective?

Could they become little bits of
color, be tumbled into less sharp
shapes?  Could they be jumbled together
and serve as the contrast to the pastel
propriety of “the typical”?

Would their presence allow the
iridescent potential of other things to
be revealed?

There is room in my mind
for the motley… the
varicolored… the prismatic.



“We’ll gladly share our culture
with you…if you share yours with us $$$”
proclaimed a small sign on
a jewelry vendor’s table.

We shared.

The fancy dancers wandered
the grounds, war bonnets on and
cell phones in hand.

The outer circle beckoned,
with wares on display.
Art.  T-shirts.  Blankets.
And jewelry.

The southern drums beat
a steady rhythm, as a piece
of fry bread found its way to us.

We sat and ate in silence, watching
the processions…intentional

(and otherwise)

My culture has war paint, too.
It’s called “Chanel”, and it’s sold
under glass.




Is it a relief or do you
get anxious when you
realize that you are
far from home?

What feels far to me

may not even begin to
seem like a day’s journey
to you.  My passport
hasn’t seen the amount of
exercise that yours has recently.

Trips to ethnic restaurants serve
as my big adventures right now

(and some trips are more adventurous
than others!)

It’s not the exterior landscapes
that I roam.   Learning the mind

from the inside, peering into
hidden corners…these journeys
uncover stained glass mosaics of
thought and feeling, monuments
from times passed, and other
features not often suitably captured
by the post-card of a poem.



My house is far from tidy,
and my clothes have run through
several seasons.  Let’s not even
discuss how old my working boots are.

Where I’m getting less messy is
in my heart. 

I’ve picked up after myself quite a
bit; there isn’t much I haven’t found
and tried to discover in here.

I uncovered a secret stash of
patience not long ago.  I’m hoping it’s
a lifetime supply.  It shows a few
stretch marks, but those often accompany
good things.

My courage was untied recently, and
it snuggled up right away with my ability
to acknowledge “I don’t know”…and
made me able to say so.

Reason has a prominent seat, and holds
court frequently with the other occupants.
It’s a good listener, which surprised me, but
It’s been hanging out a lot with compassion.
I can almost hear their conversations, and
they don’t keep me up at night.


Today’s LittleNip:

A weeping grey sky
descends on my umbrella—
Bright daffodils dance.

—AK White


—Medusa, with thanks to Loch Henson and to the Anonymous Photographer (from our area) for a wonderful poetry-breakfast this morning!

 First Daffodils