Wealth is all on how you take it
Materials are nice to have,
But are lived without.
What can you make by miracle
Or even sense of doubt?
Rich are those who see and visit
Even if by phone.
Love comes by not taking of one’s self
By giving what is your own.
By words, by experiences, by touch,
By listening, by standing and being tough;
By being there, outside physical means,
By holding hands with those who can’t read.
In good times when all you think is there
In bad times when you wither with despair
We’re all rich outside skin and bones
If you let in the light, the light will take you home.
Culture is a level
Outside the neighborhood
If you choose to stay inside
Do you think you really should?
Abound in experience
Close it in your heart
The garden it grows every day
Sometimes more than not.
Perhaps it’s a day to remind us
how we face the facts
feelings can’t describe
its in the way you act
Those who never understand
what these words will mean
poor are those who never learn
to be a human being.
Last night, I had a small conversation with a Californian Poet via the internet. We talked philosophy, which often gets me into another realm of thought. She used the word “Meat” to symbolize certain women as- sexual objects. To me this provoked some really deep thoughts which evolved into the poetry piece you see before you. I feel from first reading, this may be one of my better pieces. Thank you Enedina.
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Once classified by other women
as a whore,
She waits:
For anyone.
The butcher is first on the cutting block.
With every blow by his instrument,
Another sinew is sliced,
Till in the end there are only tears.
The cleaver:
In the grip of a masculine hand
coldly carves random flesh,
for consumption.
A fatty piece,
Turned hard,
Remains soft at the loin,
Sweet and juicy.
Initial proceedings,
Perfect to the butcher’s eye:
cleaned and prepared
feelings avoided: satisfaction
Meat is simply sustenance
to a hungry palate,
Nourishment.
Stales.
A chef’s fingers,
Vision intrigue.
A delectable treat,
Some thing so sensitive: a woman
Passion clears the mind.
Delicious, the mentor infuses,
Creation on to waiting flesh;
A separation of love and hate.
With each sway,
With each move,
A delicacy blooms,
Every tear stripped away.
Till in the end,
There remains a dish,
So succulent,
Only a fool could tell:
It’s not love.
Today, I’d like to remember an anonymous person- an old man- who once made contact with me at a crossroad.
I’d just turned in my two week notice to my job in Manhattan after a slew of incidents which included the cut of benefits from a merger, the cut of salary, the re-evaluation of life as dictated by the events of 9-11, and the constant sickness of my new born son. I’d worked since I was twelve and being of a type-A personality, continued to pursue greater existance through work. I’d finalized the last day, which was coinsidentily made for March 15- the Ides of March. The freefall I took extended out to my walk along 6th Ave. I contemplated a whole range of scenarios which would fill my empty head on that walk….
Out of no where a poorly dressed old man comes up in front of me and throws a fist to my midsection, stopping only inches from it. I’d looked up. His face full of grey overgrown whiskers and his wrinkles deep formed a smile. He passed. I looked back at him, and he never looked back.
Being of sound mind (or at least I thought so) I came to see this as a gesture of good fortune. Something about being punched in the gut and smiling, knowing what the future was to hold, knowing what I was feeling…. perhaps this old man was my guardian angel. Giving me the sign, that all the pressures and all the turbulance of one life, work themselves out. It was a strange incident, indeed.
Fortunately, I have creative friends and at the bar, after said incident- I expressed to them how I saw this as a “sign”. Everything I was doing, was meant to be the way it is. It was a crossroad AND I did the right thing, however I saw it leading me into the darkness of what I knew not.
That was seven years ago, and even though it’s passed as if it was yesterday, I remember that old man who brought me an unexpected treasure of memory. For it’s him I look back at, and feel strong enough to say, for whatever reason being, my path as yet defined- was right.
It was the simple gesture of standing in my way- the obstacle, throwing the hypothetical fist- the pain- to an all too indecisive action. The reason as yet undefined, finds itself, when only looking back in retrospect to those crossroads and signs along the way.
As a sidenote, my quick typing misspelled signs as sings. Isn’t that funny? Now, all I need is a new word like ”Gritinw” as writing.