100 Poems is still in its first week, but I’ve already been swept off my feet by the loveliness of this community. Thank you for sharing your poems! Thank you for reading, for offering support to me and to one another, and for being willing to play (nicely!) with random strangers on the Internet. Let’s do it all again!
A Bit of Backstory
My poem for today was prompted by a rather strange scrap of wisdom from the Universe. Are you all familiar with Elizabeth Gilbert’s Letters From Love? Every now and then, I write one of these letters—I ask Love or Source or the Universe what it wants me to know that day, then I get still and jot down whatever comes. Usually, words flow in affectionate torrents, but yesterday, all I got was this: “Enjoy making the pancakes.” I didn’t have a lot of time and needed to hurry and get breakfast finished for my boys, so the brevity of this advice was appreciated, but the message itself seemed odd.
I decided to give it a try, though. I’d already made pancake batter the night before, so instead of rushing about multi-tasking, I stood in front of the griddle, watching bubbles form in the batter as it cooked. I felt oddly delighted by these bubbles. Why had I never given them a moment’s thought before? That small, seemingly insignificant experience gave rise to the poem I’m about to share with you.
I neglected to photograph my own pancakes, so thanks to Mae Mu for this one!
A Prompt to Play With
If you would like a prompt to help you toward your next poem (this is always completely optional), I hope you’ll consider this one: “Enjoy the [insert some mundane task that you’ve done many times before and need to do again today].” Enjoy it by giving your full attention to it. What have you never noticed about this task before? What sights, smells, sounds, textures, or tastes make it up? How does your body feel as it moves through space? What memories or hopes or fears or feelings bubble to the surface as you give this task your deep attention?
M-I-C-K-E-Y
I am making Mickey Mouse pancakes for my boy, almost 13. Two chocolate chips for eyes, one more for a nose. “Mickey!” he will whoop when he bounds like a puppy into the room, banging into something, always unsure where his body ends. Not for the first time, he’ll ask me please just this one time to cut the pancakes for him, and I’ll want to say yes but will refuse on principle. Air bubbles appear on Mickey’s chin, sprouting slowly, then all at once, an ever-expanding beard. When my boy was small, just 3 or 4, he stepped into the bathroom, just as his dad stepped out of the shower. His little boy eyes rounded to pancakes. “Why does Dada’s penis have a beard?” he wanted to know, and I watched something sprouting in his mind, when we told him that some day, he would be bearded, too. Air bubbles cover the whole of Mickey’s face now, like pock marks or pimples. He is ready to be flipped. He is ready for the other side, and I am not.
Thank you for reading. Now let’s go play in the comments thread! Come share a poem of your own, or enjoy what others have to offer and let them know what resonates with you.
I loved this post so much and, as you already know because I told you so offline (sister's advantage), this might be my all-time favorite poem of yours! The prompt was lovely and, while I didn't mean to be a copycat by "enjoying" a stovetop activity of my own, that is what ended up happening.
Say, if anyone knows computers/programming, can you tell me if my metaphor in the last three lines works? I was kinda winging it.
Failed Grilled Cheese
Can I do
just one thing
let alone
no thing?
It takes two emails
to grill a sandwich
one per side
or two word games
when I’m playing
hooky
But today I went
screenless, made myself
stand still with my spatula
feeling dull
but not exactly
impatient, more like
resigned.
My eyes
had two choices:
the task at hand
or just past that
(not exactly cheating)
the smeared, crumb-ridden
stovetop that signified
future work
I chose the latter, naturally
and used my spatula
too much
fussing my sandwich
around the pan
before it was cured
so that it partially
molted, and with its
bread-skin compromised
lost its secret inner world
of mayo and pesto
and pickles and
cheese and
became something
more like a
casserole
I ate it and
it was delicious
but what is the lesson?
Resume my normal
protocol of
parenthetical lunch prep
barely tapping
the brakes on my day?
Try again with the
dull method,
keep paring down
until I am One with
sandwich? Give up
and switch to cereal?
Or become a
faithful naturalist
of my own mind, track
--with curiosity only—
its comings and goings
its sparks and sputters
and how its ancient program
performs on an
all-new platform
This Moment
Dark, cold winter night,
when all seems quiet and still,
I listen.
The owls in conversant song
Lead me wondering if their music is calming,
a plea for sanity,
or the gossip of the day.
Across Nick’s meadow is the lope of deer,
graceful dancers of the dark,
vanishing into the forest that frames
this octagon bowl of space.
The scurry of a marauding racoon,
fresh from their night’s thievery;
A scowling gaze warning me to stay back.
Shooting star paints the sky,
cosmic etch-a-sketch
that inspires poets to pen.
Slow meandering skunk crawls along
confident in its defenses and protection
from the likes of me.
We stand safe in our mutual avoidance of conflict.
I wish for northern lights,
rainbow symphony that expands
our hopes for a new beginning.
And I stop, conscious of how often
I wish for even more…
I hear a small whisper from the night spirits,
“enjoy this moment.”