I live in a house with two toilets.
Some places in Africa, I’ve learned today in the New York Times (November 28th edition), have Flying Toilets.
The people there use a plastic bag for their “bathroom”; tie up the bag, and throw it, spinning out into the air.
Awareness of the lack of proper toilets exists—I read in Twitter that funding exists to install more toilets into countries that don’t have them.
I just wonder—how could their governments have so great an oversight on such an obvious need? Of course, the situation undoubtedly stems from more than governmental help. Nevertheless, I wish everyone could have two toilets in their home, wherever that may be.
**Picture courtesy of free Google images
In writing poems for this blog I have been purposely opaque. A strange word to use, but it seems the only one that truly describes my writing at this time. I write around issues of my life in an effort to minimize those very issues.
However, I am inspired by Jenny Lawson, the Bloggess, who shares her problems and yet is still very likable. I have read some of Furiously Happy (not done yet, I’m taking it in small doses).
I have not laughed til I cried in so long when reading a book, yet I did twice, so far (hence the small doses) while reading Furiously Happy.
I am very impressed that she writes, with all the many problems she faces.
I do not tend to want to share the deepest details of my life, unlike her.
I like having poems that challenge me to write better, edit a lot, and push my abilities.
However, I feel I could take a cue from Jenny Lawson, too.
So if you happen to stumble across this blog and find me actually sharing more deeply from my life, you may be surprised as me!
**Picture courtesy Pinterest
A clerical start
A studious ending
Bookends to a life
In pursuit of answers
As questions burgeoned
Why does Claudia Rankine’s work
I cannot capture the bookends
Of these lives she paints
Citizen: an American Lyric
To exist in the wrong place at the wrong time?
I do not know
Will never claim to know
But that I am haunted
By the feeling that
Have been there
In some way in some time
Have we all?
I didn’t sense a claim to universality, in fact a specificity
Colored the work.
Nevertheless, I would humbly wonder
We all get the starts and the ends; be they
Studious, clerical, or none of the above.
It’s just the middle. Such diverse differences amongst us.
A frantic flurry
Of grandiloquent flaunted verbosity
Reaching the root
Continuing to feel fraught
With the aspect of what grandiloquence creates: which is nothing
The fluency of: naught
While basking in the flood
Of the world’s words that make up my understanding
The word belies ripples
As do I
And yet I will always
Rack myself with the reek
Of love for such as words
Gray matter like a flotilla
Embers in the brain
Subtle is the language of the night
The vines can choke
While tossing you
From thought to thought
Gray matter floating like ash
Smelling like burning leaves
The flotilla? It tends a
New, cold, muse
Flying on icicles
In the snow
Where does the tenderness go
It remains an
Alter ego to the harsh interior
I like how, after a great shot in tennis–a winner, even, that I mentally have to brush it off and be ready for the next shot
the same goes for failed shots – I have to brush it off and be concentrated on the next play. Continue reading
The skin of the orange
At times hard
And almost unpeelable
At times soft,
The skin I taste on
The skin of the grapes
Breaks open in my mouth
So many skins to
Appreciate, taste and enjoy
My orange was
It was tough to
The payoff was great
As orange juice dripped
From my mouth, and the
Sweet tang overwhelmed me.