mini poems 13

1. Spruce Gaps, Sic Transit Gloria
2. Baffle 'Em,  Scrubbing the Figurine
3. State of Matter
4. Cattins, I Found Two Hours
5. Neither a Borrower,  Clean Sweep
6. Threading through Worries,  Ladybug Circles
7. Neither Pity, nor Censure, An Old Jar of Pickles
8. I Feel Overcast, Life-eater
9. Peek-a-Blue, When to Stop?

    

   

   Gaps have a bad name. Who likes clothes that gap, or teeth that gap, or generations that gap?
    But although gaps are bad in dams and fortifications, some gaps have their own redeeming qualities.

   Spruce Gaps

   Westward from our kitchen window,
   Five tall spruces stand like soldiers
   --like stiff, undaunted soldiers--
   to attenuate the wind.
    We planted just one row
   over twenty years ago,
   Not close enough to be
   a perfect windbreak.
   But I appreciate the gaps:
   Through them I see the fields
   in cloaks of
   white and green and brown,
   and the woodlands’ dress
   from starkly bare to verdant beauty.
   I see sunsets through the gaps,
   all shades of sky and tinted clouds,
   Seasons, sky and sunsets through the gaps.
   But if the windbreak were perfect,
   our view would be of spruces,
   a wall of spruces, only spruces.
   I’m thankful for the gaps.

   Lori Fiechter
   2-21-02

   

   It is raining now; the field is mostly brown, though white-dotted. The snow-bench my boys made yesterday shrinks and sags. The snow arrived in power; it recedes with far less dignity. "Sic Transit Gloria Mundi": "thus passes away the glory of the world". What Thomas A Kempis wrote of the world is true of the snow as well.

   Sic Transit Gloria

    New-fallen snow,
   purity's white robe:
   clean, fresh, and cold--
   Though quickly sullied
   once the loom is stilled.

    Fouled  by feet of man and beast
   and smoking things with wheels,
   You are a temporal garment, Snow,
   Unraveled by the sun.

   The same light that
   bedecked you with diamonds
   now disintegrates your seams;
   The rain dissolves the rest.

    O garment, glorious and white
   You are of earth,
   though dropped from heaven.
   Sic Transit Gloria!

    Lori Fiechter
   March 2, 2002

   

   Baffle 'Em

   To baffle your critics,
   just smile and agree,
   no matter how
   mistaken the accusation.
   They'll be taken aback
   by your unnatural lack
   of normal self-justification.
   While they are nonplussed,
   That's your signal to exit
   before you say something you'll rue.
   "Thanks for your concern"
   you say as you turn,
   ”I shall try to do likewise for you!”
   
   Lori Fiechter
   2-22-02

   

    Scrubbing the Figurine

   Oh, I can write a poem about you,
    Tell you just what’s wrong about you,
   Point out all those faults and flaws
   too close for you to see.
    Yes, I can write a poem about you,
   and tell you just how you should change,
   But perhaps some of those faults I hate
   are wedded to your finest traits.
   If I scour them fastidiously
   Will I kill your personality?
   When I’ve scrubbed the porcelain figurine
   to an effulgent, lustrous gleam,
   (its features safely sanded smooth)
   I find a featureless glob of clay,
    effaced and shapeless, nondescript;
   no sharp edges and no beauty.

   Lori Fiechter
   2-23-02 

   

   I don't wake up easily on cold, winter days. Or dreary rainy days. Or days when I don't have to. Or.....

   State of Matter

   I do not care to meet the day,
   I close my eyes and melt away
   Into my pillow and my bed.
   But raucous calls of kids to cats
   disturb my peace and yank me back.
   My melting stops, I am awake,
   I give the quilt a sullen shake
   and greet the day
   In my solid state.
   I'll melt again, tomorrow.

   Lori Fiechter
   1-30-02

   

   We have two half-grown black cats who are part-time housecats on cold and wintry days.  I call them “Cattins”. (When my friend   Sue, a dog-lover, read this, she commented,  "That's what I don't like about cats; they don't want to share. Now my dog is perfectly happy to share my bed, my lap, my food, and anything else I might be doing."
   So, how about it? Would cats make lousy Christians?

   Cattins

   No longer kittens: fluffy, fat
   and not yet sleek and slender cats
   I call them cattins.

   As in,

   “Cattin, get down off my chair,
   why must you choose to settle there,
   Or, if you won’t move,
   Can’t you share?”
   (He regards me with an icy stare.)

   Lori Fiechter
   10-30-02

   

    “Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that’s the stuff life is made of” Aristotle.
   (or Ben Franklin? The latter also wrote, "Time is money")

   I Found Two Hours

   I found two hours, tucked away
   into a recess of the day;
   Delighted, I drew up a list
   of possibilities.
   I made my list and changed it thrice
   And then, when I was satisfied,
   went back to claim those hidden hours.
   The lambs had fled through open gate;
   I saw afar their woolly shapes,
   Dismayed, I rued their swift escape.
   Too late, I was too late.

   Lori Fiechter
   1-30-02

   

   Money—both the lack of it and the love of it—does strange things to people. Perhaps Polonius was right:
    “Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend."
   Lending money doth make Shylocks of us all, at least in the eyes of the borrower. 

    Neither a Borrower

   Nobody loves a creditor,

   Nobody answers his calls.
   We grumble, resent him,
   avoid, circumvent him
   when we glimpse him
   across crowded halls.
   Oh, we begged and entreated
   when we needed to borrow,
   seeking out a friend who would lend.
   The sum came at once
   but we pay it back slowly,
   As it drains out like blood,
   we regard the source coldly.
   Yes, nobody loves a creditor,
   For nobody loves a debt.
   So never lend money you
   can’t freely lose,
   Especially to friends you would keep.
   and if you must borrow,
   let business be business,
   it’s a stranger or foe you should seek.
   
    Lori Fiechter
   Feb. 1, 2002

   

    Clean Sweep

   I’m in need of housecleaning,
   I’m dusty and stale,
   Cobwebby, confused,
   in a dull, sluggish stupor.
   I need a good shaking,
   fresh wind, a brisk waking,
   A clean sweep of the clutter
   that clogs up my mind.
   A bright light in the corners--
   whatever it finds.
   I’m fusty and musty,
   crusty as old Brie;
   And I can’t see a thing
   in this fog I call me.

   Lori Fiechter
   1-03-02

   

   Threading through Worries

   Threading through worries,
   Seussian piles:
   unwieldy, lopsy,
   uneven spires of myriad cares.
   35 flavors of worries and cares,
   Some for today or the next 20 years.
   Real ones and fanciful,
   towering o'er me,
   relentlessly looming
   like tall heaps of laundry;
   When one pile shrinks,
   another one grows.
   They reach to me neck,
   I can't stomp them down,
   I don't think they'd burn
   if I lit them afire,
   These Seussian piles
   and towering spires.

   Lori Fiechter
   1-04-01

   

    I was sectioning a grapefruit half for my breakfast when I noticed a yellow ladybug scuttling ‘round and ‘round a juice glass. I finally got tired of watching; I helped it down.

    Ladybug Circles

   Ladybug running laps,
   running laps ’round the rim;
   ’round the rim of the green plastic juice cup;
   Jogging in circles,
   same ground, round and round.

   The upclimb was easy
   but the wide lip perplexed her
   She leaned over, paused,
   but the risk wasn’t worth it.

   Back to the rim,
   ’round and ‘round once again.

   She’s making me dizzy,
   Her strength is not flaggin’
   I help her down,
   she scampers off,
   a mini yellow Volkswagen.

   Lori Fiechter
   1-04-02

   

    I don't know what the trigger was for remembering this. I was getting ready for bed last night when this 25-year old image popped in my head:an old jar of homemade garlic dills in our old basement (under the basement steps, behind the bright orange burlap curtains) I don't recall exactly how old the pickles were, but not even Dad tried to eat them.

    An Old Jar of Pickles

    Ancient pickles, dill and garlic,
   at the back of the shelf.
   Slippery cucumbers,
   forgotten by time,
   Far past expiration,
   soaked senseless in brine,
   Sour and moldy and
   covered with slime.

   I'm that old jar of pickles,
   past my prime.

    lori fiechter
   1-10-02

   

   I'd just recovered from a pulled groin muscle when I pulled a muscle in my lower back. (Don’t ask me how; I’ve no idea) I’ve never pulled either, before. I know my husband well enough not to expect sympathy, but neither did I expect advice while still in pain. "You’re falling apart. Guess walking isn’t good enough exercise." Yes, I know I need to do strengthening exercises again. Perhaps I should be thankful that he tells me what I need to hear instead of what I want to hear.

   Neither Pity, nor Censure

   I don’t want your pity,
   I don’t like your censure.
   And I can’t listen to advice
   while I’m hurting.
   Don’t step on me
   while I’m down
   or tell me I should be tougher
   when I still feel weak.
   I already know that
   my upper lip should be stiffer,
   I see that bullet I should bite.
   Not all of us are stoics.
   I don’t want your pity,
   but please,
   hold your censure.

   Lori Fiechter

   November 13, 2001