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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: mindfulness

Mother’s Day

02 Saturday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, poetry, Uncategorized

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

death, life, May, mindfulness, Mother's Day, poem, poetry

AE2E5F4D-85D9-4D26-9D58-B64CB9D90A64

I only have a few days left,

The radio screams;

The television blares;

The spam-mail claims;

I only have a few days left,

To order flowers for Mother’s Day.

241715B9-9604-49E0-8483-2150599D0D31

Only Mother, 

(Against all the rules of the game,

I thought I knew so well),

Mother

Is dead.

Like Father, 

And Grandfather,

And Grandmother,

And it makes me wonder:

How could all these characters

That made up the landscape of my childhood,

The very fabric and the backdrop of my life

Simply walk off stage forever?

Who wrote this script, anyway?

D2560F07-0D3D-4CAC-A440-AD4D8E9BE79B_1_105_c

But that is just ego talking,

Ego that sits like a huge blind egg

Atop a pedestal of its own design.

That is just ego pretending

To be the end-all and the be-all of existence.

In reality, the fabric of life continues;

Rip, repair, rip, repair, rip, repair.

The river of life keeps flowing

Finding another channel where one is blocked.

scenic view of waterfalls

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

The blood that ran through my parents

Flows through me and my grandchildren

As well as Sir Tulip Tree saluting the morning sun,

And those three awesome wild turkeys strolling beneath;

That humming, zipping dragonfly;

That laughing marigold.

IMG_7590

This

Flower is for you, Mother

And 

This

Moment

For you and me and all the ancestors

And all the descendants

And

The Now

Of three yellow tulips:

Bulbs brought from Amsterdam

(Where you never journeyed,

Content with my stories and pictures)

yellow tulips in bloom

Photo by Paul Khlistunov on Pexels.com

This now, I enjoy for all the world,

For Mother,

For Mother’s Day.

The chaotic spiral path of earth will journey my egobody

Away some day too.

photography of maple trees

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Meanwhile,

Do we not owe it to that host,

That multitude of ancestors

Stretching out behind us into the net of proto-life,

Do we not owe it to them 

To watch the golden flowers glow, 

As intently as we are able?

Certainly,

That is the attitude of my wise cousins:

Dragonfly, turkey and tree.

Should I do any less?

silhouette people on beach at sunset

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

Author Page on Amazon

Life is a Dance
The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Comes the Reign

The Jewels of November

09 Thursday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

beauty, life, mindfulness, poem, poetry, seasons

{I wrote this poem in 1997 when it won third prize in the Chatfield National Poetry contest. It seems oddly apropos today.}

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Winter ripped into our neighborhood last night
Gale and pail of rain turned flake by morning
Gutters filled to overflowing; my basement flooded.
And the riot of yesterday’s autumn light
Gone as though it never burned its magic riots of red and gold.
All the tallest tulip trees and oaks stand naked now,
Black, bucking wet twigs against the steel gray sky.

Bundled in my leather hat, jacket and gloves,
I walk out to survey the carnage of fallen leaf and broken branch.
The wind still gusts to make my eyes smart and my cheeks burn
Low black clouds swim and swirl.
Somewhere a flag cord bangs against an empty pole.

So off I go through deserted streets of a condo Sunday morning
Into the drear of pale November.
The wind sings a shriller note when the leaves are gone,
The hush is replaced by a whistle.

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And, walking down the hill toward the main road
I see beneath the broken canopy the first Jewels of November —
Coral leaves laid in relief against the wet black woods
The amber leaves, the carmine leaves of shrubs
Protected by the barren trunks of their taller cousins.

Beside the road, a head of goldenrod casts against green grass.
A few lonely wood asters, white and an occasional blue.
Hanging from the dead vines, clusters of gold and red.
Before me, the sky breaks for a moment only
And a hawk wheels through a single shaft of sunlight
Rejoicing, so it seems, in the thick cold air,
His outstretched white wing fingers glowing white for a moment.

selective photography of flying black falcon

Photo by Nigam Machchhar on Pexels.com

And so I find, here in this gray and lifeless world
Treasures of color and texture and form — and music too
For the overflowing brooks are singing quiet giggles
Just as ten black crows careen and crackle through the trees.

I look down and see a broken piece of branch
Bedecked with lichens, the palest possible shade of blue-green.
I bend to pick it up and out of my jacket pocket coins tumble
Tinkling on the black macadam roadway, they splay themselves:
A shiny copper penny, dime, quarter, nickel and a dark penny.
How fine when I was a child to find a few coins like this! How rich!
I knew the different smell and taste of every coin,
My parents’ dire warnings not to put them in my mouth
Making the taste so much more exotic and exciting.
Now my money comes to me as a blue paper note
Claiming the check was deposited directly in my account.
How efficient, I note.

D63A741E-DC68-4653-8F60-F6A622372064

Another shaft of sunlight strikes me from the briefly parting clouds
As I retrieve my coins one by one
And remember that today is the New York City marathon.
Phillipides, so the story goes, died after bringing the news
Of a Greek victory back, from exhaustion, so we suppose.
But I wonder: was it simply that his life¹s best work was done?
Or could it even be the sheer clear joy of the news delivered?
Or, the ecstasy of the swinging legs and arms, the hot heart,
The heaving chest — feeling so alive that pain itself is joy.

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The wind is at my back and I wonder what it would feel like
To run today that long race through the windy streets of New York.
But a walk through the woods is enough for me, enough today,
Stopping to watch the hundred precious scenes laid out before me.
I wonder where all these treasures were last week-end
When I walked this same path.
The answer is, of course, that they were drowned in a sea of color
The neon chaos of autumnal carnival showing off.

I turn back toward home now.
Lonely snowflakes hit and actually bounce once off the black road
Before settling down to melt their brief beauty on still warm tar.

The wind is fully furious in my face.
I dream what lunch I might fix once out of this blowing cold
A steaming chicken broth thick with onions, carrots, and peppers.
And I recall a time when I was a senior in college and had the flu;
The medicine the doctor gave me made me worse
And I ended up not eating for three days
But the at-last, ah-ah, taste of the clear broth I savored oh so slowly!
A feast from a magic bullion cube!

adult beard black jacket cup

Photo by Burst on Pexels.com

And I wonder as I begin the ascent up the long hill toward home,
Whether winter might not be the whirling earth’s greatest gift.
What would autumn, full summer, or the tender spring be
Without the deadly in-between, the waiting, the wail, the white.

In a land of endless plenty and eternal life, would we ever see
The Jewels of November?

A6253369-6ABE-4B57-884E-BEFF53F7F505

 

—————————–

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

A Cat’s a Cat & That’s That.

07 Tuesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in family, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

cats, gratitude, kitten, life, love, mindfulness, peace, pets, poem, poetry

93999BA9-3F6B-4069-A0C9-09C02276BD21

Sirius and Mister Jones watching TV with us.

Mister Mitchell is his name.
He would rather be in my lap
Than curled up beside the keyboard
Sneaking a paw out to help me,
Tapping out a random,
(Or, seemingly random),
// here and there.

ECA59E20-31F0-4D33-8E4C-0A6E5168FC6A

Jones checking out the new sound system.

But //? Who knows?
Perhaps he’s trying to find some website
Devoted to the feline.
After all,
They have a TV program now for cats.

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‘Mister Mitchell’ is not a name we chose;
Rather the name came with the cat.
He mostly seems a fur generating machine
Sidling up to the Thinkpad.

orange cat foot on laptop keyboard

Photo by Александар Цветановић on Pexels.com

Yet, he is not a machine
But a living breathing system
Turning fish and turkey into more Mister Mitchell
And every one of his trillions of cells:
A miracle of masterly mechanism,
Much like me,
Getting sick and getting well,
Much like me,
Sleeping, eating, wishing the endless rain would let up
And some sun would shine at last
Much like me.

farm land during sunset

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I’m not sure he has an opinion on the world situation,
Or of whether we’ll ever fire the Liar-In-Chief,
Or of what should be done with corporate crooks,
Or cares whether the Dow is up or down.

pile of gold round coins

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Mister Mitchell never helps me take out the recycling
Or do the dishes or the shopping;
In reality, Mister Mitchell is not much use —
And maybe that’s the point:

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The miracle of life is point enough without a use.
People are so forgetful,
Of the miracles all around,
Large and small.

woman raising her hands

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

Much like me.

 

people in concert

Photo by Sebastian Ervi on Pexels.com


Author Page on Amazon

Other Poems on this Blog:

Race, Place, Space, Face

Piano

A Suddenly Springing Something

Hauntings Across the Time Zone

Is a Dream? 

The Most Serious Work 

The Joy of Juggling

Wristwatch

Continental Breakfast

Maybe it Needs a New Starter

The Truth Train

Sunless Sunday of Faith

Camelot

Peace

The Impossible

Ambition

America

Don’t They Realize How Much Better Off They Are Now? 

The Bubble People

 

 

Wristwatch

23 Monday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

celerity, ecology, environment, life, mindfulness, poem, poetry, politics, time, truth, virus

2ED5B35A-54F8-43CB-8534-46D31A07049D_1_105_c

What is this?

A gift. 

A wristband watch.

How convenient.

For someone.

For me?

I wonder…

It’s a kind of a band

(A bit like a slave band)

A bit of a rift,

Between me and me

men s suit and accessories

Photo by malcolm garret on Pexels.com

If you see; 

Get my drift.

It’s kind of sand

In my shoe

Keeping me from other things

And it rings

In my ear

That a land

Where all that stands

Is the least pernicious example

Is but a silly sweet example

Of things to come.

“Hurry to the hippodrome!

Never mind the cost.”

Never mind what’s lost

Never mind what land

We conquer to expand

The land that … sorry….

Didn’t mean to mention that…

The land of the free…

I hope that is an okay phrase,

An acceptable phrase.

Because the thing that worries me

Is not forty-five per se, 

Oh, 

No.  

I know.

No.

What bothers me is this:

That a part of me says, “hiss”

On cue.

And then I say “Boo!”

And either way, 

It’s Putin’s day. 

men in black and red cade hats and military uniform

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Oh, yes.  We are quite the quintessential conquestadoro.

Les hommes mucho macho

Let’s salsify the nacho

Let’s wolf down some state or other.

Sorry, meant to say steak or other…

1DCFDDF6-6B3F-434F-97F5-4C6C090667DC 

Slyly, slyly, you may perceive

That I, 

Much like our current reality,

Make no sense.  

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Granted, 

But I have no pretensions of being

Chiseled into Mount Rushtoomuchmore

Just because I gave away 

The U S A 

To those who hanker-danker for oil.

“Oil.”

Isn’t that a lovely word?

I like the sound.

Silky, deep, and dark. 

gray industrial machine during golden hour

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Oil.”

I love the stuff. 

Titusville, Pennsylvania as I recall

Was the happening place to be.

Nearly, West Virginia and Ohio 

Came to blows over it.

But we got over it.

Clear over the rainbow.

All the way to where the sun don’t shine

To where instead monkeyshines

Rule the day,

And check 

And slay.

Say! 

My watch alarm now is screaming: 

woman holding burning newspaper

Photo by Jhefferson Santos on Pexels.com

“Way past time to play! 

All hands on deck! 

You’re making a wreck

Of every day! 

Your addictive greed

Grew a wicked weed!

Thoughts flash between sulcus and gyrus

Showing us how to beat the virus,

We must hunker down and work as one

For just this once until it’s done.

Then, we go and green this globe 

Let’s use once more that frontal lobe!”

IMG_3071


———————————————-

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

 

Ambition!

04 Wednesday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

ambition, greed, irony, life, materiality, mindfulness, poem, poetry, SHRUGS, spiritual, truth, worship

IMG_1442

I’ll be Number One!
They’ll say I’ve won!
Biggest man in all the land!
Forego the loving touch
Of a lovely lover’s hand.
A tracing finger
Long will linger —
But no so much
As a mountain carved,
A fountain named,
A people starved,
A nation flamed!

Some children caged!

 

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I hunger yet
To win the bet;
To march the march
Through desolate lands;
Light the torch
On tortured hands;
Found a city;
Show no pity;
Conquer all;
Steal the ball!

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I may not know
Of crystal snow
Or love in bed —
Silky hair wet
Falling full across my face;
Laughter; holy grace —
But instead
I get
No forced solitude.
I have the multitude
At beck and call
And in my thrall.
On flashbulb feasts
I will dine,
Roasted beasts,
And finest wine!

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And when the game
At last is won
And My Own Name
Heads everyone’s,
I’ll laugh and flash
From bed of death:
I held the lash!
No wasted clock
On balderdash
Or poppycock.
I rushed ahead
To this final bower
My ultimate power.
So I could lay
Beneath cold ground
Beneath the sound
Of crashing drum
— beat
And brashing horn
— blast
And marching man
— feet
And now at long
— last

With my last breath,
Content.

Perfectly content.
Serene.
Perfectly serene.
Yet —
Yet, I wonder —
Is it too late?
Have I missed … ?
Could I just have a chance to — ?

Oh.
I see.
It’s over.

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Author Page on Amazon.

The Game— What does one do, if one has so much wealth and power that you literally want for nothing?

The Bubble People

01 Sunday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

awareness, being, bubbles, mindfulness, now, poem, poetry, summer

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And there are little blue bubbles
All around their heads.

At least,
That’s the way I see it.

He goes swizzing down the highway,
Weaving slightly,
Unaware,
Unaware,
That he is going 35 or 85 in a 65 zone.

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Inside the little blue bubble,
Stocks are being bought and sold.
His head leans thoughtfully to the left
His left hand bracing the Nokia
And blocking his view of passing cars
And of the lushly verdant scenery that is
No doubt one reason he chose to live
In such an expensive place as Westchester.

Inside the little blue bubble,
Business is being transacted —
Serious stuff —
Money changes hands.
And hopefully, more than his fair share
Rubs off on his palms like dried green mold.
If enough little scraplings of green powder
Are heaped together,
The man in the little blue bubble can buy —
What?
Perhaps a better beeper, phone, or larger car.

closeup photography blueberry fruits

Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

In the park,
The children come and go,
Talking of Mike and Angelo;
Looking perhaps for the lame balloonman.
But the woman in the little blue bubble
Doesn’t see or hear them;
Turns her head and puts a finger in her ear,
The better to block the whiz of whirring skaters.
There’s a deal on the line.
There’s money to be made.
She doesn’t hear the bees whine,
Doesn’t feel the elm shade.

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And the spring mischief in me paints a sudden vision:
I could go and tap her on the shoulder,
Dance her off her feet and back to life
In this sunny day park of now.
My eyes dart to her face, searching,
But she is lost —
Lost behind the foggy blue bubble.

“Before I built a wall…” I mutter
And stroll back slowly the way I came.

IMG_8467


The above poem was originally written two weeks before 9/11/2001. It seems even more apropos now.

———————————————-

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

 

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