In the Midst of Everything

In the midst of everything flying at him

and swirling around him

unbalancing him

and keeping him

from a place of peace —

a place like

standing steady on the ground

and looking around

and feeling like he had found

or had been found

by

that precious purpose so profound —

he knew

what to do

instead of passively being bombarded —

he turned off the cell phone;

he turned off the T.V (or switched to the classical music

channel and turned down the

volume);

he turned off the radio (or just stayed on the classical

music channel and turned down the volume) –

those vehicles (except for the classical music) through which

blizzards, hurricanes, tidal waves,

earthquakes, lightening, thunder,

droughts, mass murders of two, ten,

a million, severing of heads slowly

with a short, dull knife, bullying,

so much violence (mostly) against blacks,

browns, reds, yellows and females

and lies, lies, lies

fly and swirl and knock people off

their feet and slam them onto

Inferno of Fear Street.

He left the computer on,

though.

He went to his e-mail and found

two daily meditations on the

Great Mystery,

one by a Franciscan monk and the

other by a deceased, diocesan priest and the

Poem of the Day from the Poetry

Foundation with a short biography of the

poet of the day

and a few more of

that poet’s poems.

If his wife were near, he would read

them to her; if not, he would just

read, sigh a sigh

of great depth,

breadth and length

like he was inhaling

the spray from a crashing ocean wave

or the scent of pines along a hiking trail

in the mountains.

He thought about

the Big Lake by his house

and the trail run he, his wife and their

Chocolate Lab would take in about an

hour.

He turned off the internet connection,

opened a bag of

dark roasted coffee beans,

breathed deeply of the beans

with closed eyes and a smile,

ground them,

added Hazelnut Cream

coffee, brewed a pot,

did the dishes from the

previous evening’s

dessert and

went to read a chapter or

two of a mystery by someone like P.D.

James or J.A. Jance.

In the evening, they would

turn on the T.V.

watch some news and commentary

from among the many channels,

which political liberals watch

and then look for a mystery

to enjoy

and probably, somewhere along the

day, he would write a poem perhaps

imitating the form of

the poem of the day as practice in

honing his skill

and expanding his experience.

If it were late, he would try

to resist the temptation to

post it immediately on his

blog but rather save it in

his computer to

to review

the next morning –

like what he is

doing now.

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s