When I entered the day, chicory pursed its lips. The fields were sown in disapproval, dogged as my own puckering heart. I want to tell you that to walk changes everything, want to say the whole world went daisy-faced, but it’s hot and dry, I only stayed out so long. Sometimes the truth is modest, like the skirts chicory unfolds in the cool silk of morning— purple, pleated, revealing only a little, but loose enough for movement, and to walk always changes something.
I think I was trying to find a start to part of this poem for a while, and the walking finally helped me put more of it together. (CW: hunting, butchering)
Heel to toe,
heel to toe.
I am repeating this in my head
as I tread through the woods
following my father, trying desperately to
keep pace with his long legs
without snapping every branch,
crunching every leaf
along the way, trying desperately to
keep the sound of my strained breaths
quieter than my clumsy feet.
I could be asleep, cozy in bed
and instead I am sweating,
stumbling, trying desperately to
keep the desperation off my face.
I could be reading, immersed in worlds
and instead I am attempting to disassociate
from this one, trying desperately to
keep him from knowing how much I hate this.
I could be the one kid who sticks with it,
the one who carries this on to the next generation,
This is gorgeous and heartbreaking. “ I can barely carry myself - let alone the weight of his hope.” Your poem reflects the experiences of so many children . . . and an experience I’m trying so hard not to create for my kids!
My own cells felt gripped as I read this, A. I also felt the ache of being misaligned with someone we want desperately to feel aligned with. Beautragic.
Wow A, this is so gripping and beautiful. I was especially struck by the "there could be nothing worse" part... and how your dad's disappointment came close. Thank you for sharing this.
This is stark and beautiful, powerful and moving A. I can imagine all those children following their parents or beloveds, not wanting to disappoint but also wanting to be anywhere but there. The analogy of your father's disappointment and your feeling of plunging your hand into the deer is searing. And your ending "if he had ever just asked me/ to take a walk." That resonates so close; all the timess I as a parent felt we had to do "something" for the day, instead of just being with, taking a walk, destination unimportant.
I love your powerful and to-the-point intro - walk like you mean it - and the way you carry and build that power all the way through to the end. I read this twice aloud and want to read it at least two times more!
"Like you know that it is only by the grace of God and gravity that you are not flung into the void like just another shooting star" - oh my, friend. This one spoke to me.
This is splendid, Keith! “Walk like you mean it”. May we all! “That you are not flung into the void like just another shooting star.” True creative genius. Your poem is a walk about all on its own!
Such a rich sensory compote! I'm sure nothing compares to experiencing it first-hand, but I feel like I have a great sense of why you would still be floating a little bit.
I lost count of the number of times my dad fell between 90-91. And yes, every time, some of his confidence and a lot of his dignity was lost. It was like watching a shipwreck (DeGaulle was not wrong).
Hi friends. I already offered a poem, but thinking on Lisa's prompt reminded me of this poem I found in 1972, when I was a junior in high school, on the inner sleeve of the Album "Blue River" by Eric Andersen. It is Irving Layton's "There Were No Signs."
I love the notion of a "lovescape," complete with every kind of terrain. The line "love is lighter than air and stronger than fear" is just gorgeous. I'll be carrying that with me.
“Love is lighter than air and stronger than fear/able to bend and tear and absorb the broken pieces” - gorgeous language and so evocative, Larry. Another lovely prayer-poem.
Hubby and I are on a little weekend away and about to make a trip to Silver Dollar city where much walking is involved. I just hope my poor feet are up to it.
Yay for all the votes for purple! I really don’t understand why they get called blue - ditto for blue asters. I had 2 summers post Covid where I couldn’t tolerate heat at all and had to wear an ice vest to be outside (SUCH a good look). I’m doing much better now but feel you on the difficulty of heat!
I recently wore a damp cloth on my neck to go to craft club at the library on one of the hottest days we had here - it wasn't cute, but it allowed me to go and not feel sick!
I see more blue but I can see the purplish hue! My walks are confined to the nearby community center lately - we've had some milder days lately but I don't like to get all hot and sticky!!!
What a delightful poem to walk into this morning! I am in the purple camp, too! Your poem is a walk in the morning, a wonderfully descriptive stroll through a landscape of heart, mind and body. Keep on walking, Lisa!
I think I was trying to find a start to part of this poem for a while, and the walking finally helped me put more of it together. (CW: hunting, butchering)
Heel to toe,
heel to toe.
I am repeating this in my head
as I tread through the woods
following my father, trying desperately to
keep pace with his long legs
without snapping every branch,
crunching every leaf
along the way, trying desperately to
keep the sound of my strained breaths
quieter than my clumsy feet.
I could be asleep, cozy in bed
and instead I am sweating,
stumbling, trying desperately to
keep the desperation off my face.
I could be reading, immersed in worlds
and instead I am attempting to disassociate
from this one, trying desperately to
keep him from knowing how much I hate this.
I could be the one kid who sticks with it,
the one who carries this on to the next generation,
who makes him proud
but I feel like I can barely carry myself -
let alone the weight of his hope -
through anymore forest.
I have already shot a deer, watched
with shining eyes as his knife cut
through the hide, smelled the bile
as I tried to keep my own stomach inside.
He told me he would teach me how to
clean a deer one day, in the careful,
practiced way I'd seen him do so many times,
and I thought there could be nothing worse
than plunging my hands into the warm body
of a being whose life I had just taken,
but the disappointment
when I finally put down his hope,
finally told him it was too much for me to hold,
finally let it go and embraced my own,
came awfully close.
The thing is, I would have gone -
would've happily trudged along -
if he had ever just asked me
to take a walk.
This is gorgeous and heartbreaking. “ I can barely carry myself - let alone the weight of his hope.” Your poem reflects the experiences of so many children . . . and an experience I’m trying so hard not to create for my kids!
My own cells felt gripped as I read this, A. I also felt the ache of being misaligned with someone we want desperately to feel aligned with. Beautragic.
Wow A, this is so gripping and beautiful. I was especially struck by the "there could be nothing worse" part... and how your dad's disappointment came close. Thank you for sharing this.
This is simply amazing. It’s so rich. All the details. I’m with you the whole way.
This is stark and beautiful, powerful and moving A. I can imagine all those children following their parents or beloveds, not wanting to disappoint but also wanting to be anywhere but there. The analogy of your father's disappointment and your feeling of plunging your hand into the deer is searing. And your ending "if he had ever just asked me/ to take a walk." That resonates so close; all the timess I as a parent felt we had to do "something" for the day, instead of just being with, taking a walk, destination unimportant.
"dogged as my own puckering heart." So many clever and delicious word pairings in this one, friend.
*
Walk like you mean it.
Like you feel the solidity
of 4.5 billion years of rock
beneath your feet.
Like you know that it is only
by the grace of God and gravity
that you are not flung into the void
like just another shooting star.
Like you are open to receiving
the offer of unearned sweetness
from fruit and flower that have
miraculously managed
to bloom and ripen,
notwithstanding.
Like you are dancing
to the bird's song
of perseverance.
Walk like you mean it
and also like you bless it.
Every last bit of it.
I love your powerful and to-the-point intro - walk like you mean it - and the way you carry and build that power all the way through to the end. I read this twice aloud and want to read it at least two times more!
Ah, thank you for reading my poem aloud, and multiple times, no less! I'm glad you felt so moved <3 :))
"Like you know that it is only by the grace of God and gravity that you are not flung into the void like just another shooting star" - oh my, friend. This one spoke to me.
Thank you, A. So glad to know you connected with it <3
This is splendid, Keith! “Walk like you mean it”. May we all! “That you are not flung into the void like just another shooting star.” True creative genius. Your poem is a walk about all on its own!
Thank you, Larry…yes, may we all walk like we mean it <3
"Walk like you mean it / and also like you bless it" -- this is such an inspiring poem, Keith!
Thanks so much, Bekah - so glad you felt it so!
I went backpacking over the weekend, my favorite kind of summer walk. Here is one thing that came out of that:
.
It took me three days to get there,
after 7,000 vertical feet and 60 logs
scrambled over or around,
after the trail bear that bounded away
from my pup and crossed a quarter-mile
boulder field faster than I could lap a track,
after the coyote family that sounded like
ghosts at dusk, and were only made
not-ghosts by the odd stray yip,
after every rodent in the watershed
had been sufficiently terrified by my dogs
and by the yelling that accompanied
their pursuits because I did not want
warm blood on my hands,
after all the buzzing and whining lives
I took without compunction,
after two bad nights of sleep,
after the smoke breathed truth
in and out of the valley
and the eagle regarded me from
four different vantage points as I
gawked and snapped photos and
finally wondered who it was
.
and in wonder stopped narrating
.
and in wonder stopped struggling
.
and in wonder stood cradled
in feathered larch limbs and lakewater
and became the only person,
which is to say every person,
and floated almost the whole way
back to the trailhead
.
and am still floating,
a little bit.
“The only person, which is to say every person.” I love this and how your poem carried me right into awe and magic and letting go.
Oh, I love this! "and am still floating, a little bit." 🧡
Such a rich sensory compote! I'm sure nothing compares to experiencing it first-hand, but I feel like I have a great sense of why you would still be floating a little bit.
with wobbly clompy awkward stomps,
Your precarious teetering
moves forward.
Losing the tiny fingerholds
of confidence,
you topple,
as hands reach out to help.
& try again.
A joyful celebration at 1.
At 91, not so much.
I lost count of the number of times my dad fell between 90-91. And yes, every time, some of his confidence and a lot of his dignity was lost. It was like watching a shipwreck (DeGaulle was not wrong).
Yes. seeing the struggle to walk from both ends was polarizing(?) (not quite the right word)
Hi friends. I already offered a poem, but thinking on Lisa's prompt reminded me of this poem I found in 1972, when I was a junior in high school, on the inner sleeve of the Album "Blue River" by Eric Andersen. It is Irving Layton's "There Were No Signs."
There Were No Signs
By Irving Layton
^
By walking I found out
Where I was going.
^
By intensely hating, how to love.
By loving, whom and what to love.
^
By grieving, how to laugh from the belly.
^
Out of infirmity, I have built strength.
Out of untruth, truth.
From hypocrisy, I wove directness.
^
Almost now I know who I am.
Almost I have the boldness to be that man.
^
Another step
And I shall be where I started from.
Oh wow, this is wonderful! Thank you so much for sharing it, Larry!
This really encapsulates the paradox of a human go-around…thanks for sharing, Larry
I did not get out for a walk on this long work day, but went walking in my heart and mind.
Walking
^
Our journey began with a walk,
Two dreamers strolling through fire and ice,
Lost in the ever rolling stream of opening hearts
not caring where the path would lead
in these dark mountains.
^
Denials and hesitancies tried to pry their way in,
but love is lighter than air and stronger than fear,
able to bend and tear and absorb the broken pieces
the shattered stones become whole again,
hope rises from the ashes of what once was.
^
The trails have been winding and long,
our dance transparent along the streets and avenues
that still beckon our restless hearts.
Safety and security give way to silent resignation,
Our blue trains often stuck on incongruent tracks.
^
Along the way we have stumbled and fallen,
gotten lost in the haze of insecurity,
blinded by the light from distant shores
wandering and wondering where home is,
crying out that we have lost our way.
^
We keep walking through this perilous lovescape,
mountain meadows of exquisite flowers,
aching fields with the debris of too much said or left unsaid,
praying that the circles that take us outward
will turn and bring us home again.
I love the notion of a "lovescape," complete with every kind of terrain. The line "love is lighter than air and stronger than fear" is just gorgeous. I'll be carrying that with me.
Thank you Lisa! Love and light to you.
“Love is lighter than air and stronger than fear/able to bend and tear and absorb the broken pieces” - gorgeous language and so evocative, Larry. Another lovely prayer-poem.
Thank you friend. Your readings and comments always deepen my own understanding.
Right back at you :))
I love the imagery of breaking and mending, moving apart and back together again. It feels like a really honest depiction of love.
Thank you A. As the songwriter Greg Brown sings “love is a gift, life is a journey. We’ll get them together one of these days…”
Hubby and I are on a little weekend away and about to make a trip to Silver Dollar city where much walking is involved. I just hope my poor feet are up to it.
Do not take for granted
Your ability
To walk
Down the street
Up the stairs
Into the store
Around the block
Lest the ravages of age or infirmity
Make such basic mobility
A luxury.
So important to remember this! ❤️
Yes, mobility is a luxury...not a given. Hope your feet held up!
I wish someone had told me this a long time ago.
Oh, definitely purple. I need to start walking again! This summer has been hard for me with the heat, but I miss it.
Yay for all the votes for purple! I really don’t understand why they get called blue - ditto for blue asters. I had 2 summers post Covid where I couldn’t tolerate heat at all and had to wear an ice vest to be outside (SUCH a good look). I’m doing much better now but feel you on the difficulty of heat!
I forgot to cast a vote for purple…and yay for ice-vest free summer outings💜
I recently wore a damp cloth on my neck to go to craft club at the library on one of the hottest days we had here - it wasn't cute, but it allowed me to go and not feel sick!
Whatever it takes! 💜
WAIT I want to change my answer - it's periwinkle - a mixture of purple and blue.
I accept your amendment! The word "periwinkle" has such a happy sound to it, doesn't it?
I see more blue but I can see the purplish hue! My walks are confined to the nearby community center lately - we've had some milder days lately but I don't like to get all hot and sticky!!!
It's very hard to avoid hot and sticky in an Arkansas summer!
"The fields were sown in disapproval": haha, I know those days! What a perfect way of saying it. Another gorgeous poem, Lisa. Love it!
Thank you so much, Priscilla! And thankfully, the fields seem to be sprouting different seeds today.
They do that! lol
It’s purple 💜💜💜💜💜
Oh good, it’s not just me!
I vote for purple too. And your poem is lovely, Lisa.
Thank you, LeeAnn! May all future voting processes be this lighthearted and peaceful!
What a delightful poem to walk into this morning! I am in the purple camp, too! Your poem is a walk in the morning, a wonderfully descriptive stroll through a landscape of heart, mind and body. Keep on walking, Lisa!
Thank you, Larry! Seeing the comments rolling in, I think the purple camp is the place to be!
🟣🟣🟣🟣