Poem: Every Little Thought I Type

Every Little Thought I Type

Every little thought I type

Comes out garbled on the screen.

The words go through my fingers

To the keys and then…

Gibberish glitters back at me.

I can’t print that.

What is wrong with the word processor?

Those words on that screen are meaningless.

My heart would tell you 

So much more like the leaves

Falling golden from the trees

In a pulsing continuum…

But word processing can’t capture

The steady rhythm of my

Heartbeat as I type the words

Which disappear between keys and screen.

September 2021

About This Poem

This is a poem about the difficulty of capturing things in words. While I sometimes think poetry can convey thoughts better than most words, sometimes nothing does your feelings or thought justice. It's because they are your own and sometimes you don't have the capacity to convey those thoughts fully to anyone, even yourself. The photograph is of the library at George Eastman House in Rochester, New York.

 

Beauty Oppresses

Leaves fall from the trees

In no particular pattern

Leaving golds and browns

Scattered on the ground.

Rainfall, then snowfall

Press the leaves into mush

Flat against the grass

And I work to rake it up.

It’s lovely to watch the leaves

Swirl through the sky.

It’s refreshing to hear the rain

Fall to the earth below.

It’s beautiful to see the snow

Whiten the world around.

It’s miserable to rake

Mushed leaves on the ground.

All that beauty creates 

So much sloppy weight

That beauty oppresses

The very earth below.

I could leave it to chance,

Let bugs come to it in spring

And deal with their progeny 

Throughout the summer

But I’ll just let beauty 

Oppress because that’s

The requirement to maintain 

Such breathtaking splendor.

November 2021

About This Poem

It's leaf raking season and this poem is about that and about how beauty can be overwhelming at times. There's no other succinct way to explain it. Sometimes beauty is just too much, overwhelming even. That may be why the true splendor of autumn doesn't last long, but resolves itself into gray and drear: so we won't be overwhelmed or oppressed too much. The poem explains it far better than I can here but suffice it to say I was inspired by autumn and all the work it entails if you have a yard. The picture is of leaves in my lawn.