mini poems 21

1. Here Comes the Bull
2. Plowed Brown Face
3. Laid Bare
4. November Muse
5. Metaphor of Eternal Ignorance
6. One Uncrowded Nasturtium
7. Any Little Opening
8.  When Pain Talks
9. Room-Temperature Ruminating
10.  The Will, Won't
11. To Catch an Error
12. Aimless Air-boxing
13.  

    

    Here Comes the Bull

     Watch out!
    It comes charging through the open door,
    crashing down the aisles,
    jostling the porcelain,
    rattling the crystal.
    I feel the tension,
    brace for the crash.

    Here comes the bull
    into the china shop,
    heedless, harsh, and hurrying.
    If I would survive,
    must not be china.
    I must think pewter.

    Really thick, heavy pewter.

     lori fiechter
    11-18-04

    

    It was a glorious fall day--sunny with imaginative swirls of cirrus.   Because it was sunny, I washed the windows. Because the windows were clean, the plowed field with background of windmill and white Amish farmstead showed up more distinctly.

    Plowed Brown Face

     Can we talk about winter?
    You seem unafraid,
    You, with the rough-pocked face
    and uneven stubble.
    The wind slaps you and
    you merely turn a dirty cheek.

     You are not lazy, but inactive--
    neither growing nor yielding,
    You rest and wait.
    Everything about you turns harsh, bitter, and unfriendly;
    You are unfazed.

     And you are ugly  now--dirt ugly.
    I'm sorry, but it's true,
    Temporarily true.
    I envy such patient strength
    and confident hope--
    as though you really believe in Spring.
    But today, I need to talk about winter
    and how to be unafraid.

    lori fiechter
    November 5, 2004

    

    Laid Bare

    (Hebrews 4:13; II Corinthians 5:1-4)

    Gray winds,
    Stripping off the colors.
    Gray rain,
    Stomping them into the ground,
    Plucking off pages of life
    till all is bare and exposed.
    No hiding.
    All winter the skeletons stand bare
    without clothing or camouflage,
    starkly cold and shivering.
    
    But in the spring,
    a fresh, new wardrobe,
    green and warm,
    With silver rains to wash it.

    lori fiechter
    10-16-04

    

    November Muse

     My muse arrives
    when skies are gray;
    She sings and pesters me all day.
    But when the skies are
    bright and blue,
    she skitters off
    to where knows who.

     lori fiechter
    10-16-04

    

    Metaphor of Eternal Ignorance

     Crumb-hunting under
    the groaning table of plenty;
    Stumbling in the dark
    with a flashlight in my pocket.
    No, it's been done before.
    I need a new metaphor.

     Stepping blindfolded onto
    a whirling merry-go-round,
    Zipping myself daily into my
    private bubble of noise,
    ignorant of something more--
    More worthwhile,
    more satisfying,
    and longer-lasting than
    any stock option.

     Earnest seekers will find it;
    but the task-driven, tunnel-visioned clock-watcher
    will keep on tallying the
    stepping stones he has crossed,
    will keep on jumping
    from stone to stone,
    never noticing the river
    or his soggy cuffs.
    Maybe if he falls in?
    Maybe he will wake up and
    come to himself in time?
    Maybe not.
    The river is not so very wide, after all.

     lori fiechter
    10-15-04

    

    One Uncrowded Nasturtium

    Such a keen disappointment,
    having only one plant
    grow from two whole packets of seed.
    But I nurtured the one
    and gave up on the rest,
    and that one little plant
    was uncommonly blest
    for it vined and it spread
    from the east to the west.

    It snaked and it slithered around the whole plot,
    where  the cayennes, habaneros and basils
    abounded,
    it sped and encircled and quite nearly surrounded
    those unfortunate, less mobile plants.

    And, oh, how it bloomed!
    Large, peppery blooms, 
    ostentatiously orange with
    a radishy bite.
    One uncrowded nasturtium,
    ambitious and bold
    yielded its harvest,
    a good hundred-fold.

     lori fiechter
    August 11, 2004

    

    This was the first year I'd ever grown heirloom tomatoes--I'd been warned against them. But perhaps because we had a cool northern Indiana summer this year, the blooms did not fall and the tomatoes did not fail. The Pink Caspians and German Johnsons yielded quite well and they taste great.  I planted 7 varieties of hot peppers as well, so I'm all set to make more salsa.  I've had to cover the necatarines ripening in our kitchen to keep the flies off, but I didn't think to cover the tomatoes.

    Any Little Opening

     I saw the tiny fruit flies first,
    before I saw the wound.
    But heirloom reds and pinks
    will split and fissure like Mount Doom.

    The summit is a maze of cracks;
    the flies have ample room;
    when you're a teeny speck with wings,
    any opening will do.

    And then, the ooze and then decay--
    No, I won't let them have their way!
    I'll wash and scald and peel today--
    I'll have my salsa and eat it, too.

     lori fiechter
    8-11-04

    

     When Pain Talks

    I'm listening, pain,
    But must you interrupt
    so abruptly, so rudely?
    You have my full attention--
    you've grabbed it with both hands.
    Ignore you? I can't!
    You've cornered me, intimidated me, confronted me.

    Now, then, what will you?
    Why have you come?
    Speak your piece and be gone!
    But--what tongue is that?

    No, no--you grate so!
    Send an interpreter,
    and I will hear your demands.
    Then go away--
    so that I may hear other sounds again
    and focus on other faces.

     lori fiechter
    july 31, 2004

    

    Room-Temperature Ruminating

    I used to love an icy peach,
    straight from the crisper drawer.
    But now, they make my teeth
    scream out refrains of "Nevermore!"

     Such sensitive, complaining teeth
    that gripe about the cold;
    Such coddled, bossy aches and pains
    that taunt,
    "You're getting old!"

     So I eat my peaches nearly-warm
    and  find they have more flavor;
    As my sense of taste is waning,
    well, room temperature's a favor.

     lori fiechter
    7-02-04

    

     Sometimes, we honestly don't know the right way to choose. Far more often, the right way is just too difficult.

     The Will, Won't

     Not ignorance of right,
    just unwillingness to do it.
    You may say the will is weak,
    but it isn't weak to do wrong.
    The will strongly, stubbornly
    wants its own way.
    But surrender to God's way,
    every moment, every day?

    The will won't.

    lori fiechter
    6-26-04

    

    I'm grateful when people catch my typos, mispronunciations, grammatical or factual errors.
    Would I could be as gracious when my errors move past the intellectual realm.

    To Catch an Error

    Although I double-check my own work,
    I often see what isn't there but should be;
    My own mistakes remain invisible.

    You see, my errors all wear camouflage
    such tiny, inconsequential, camo-cloaked errors)
    You must have worn powerful goggles
    to spot them so readily.
    I have tried to catch the critters
    but their evasive maneuvers are beyond me.

    You see--
    My errors are unlike yours.
    Your errors dress in hunter orange
    with luminescent sequins.
    They wear leaden boots
    on their watermelon-sized feet.
    How can you miss them??

    Obviously, you have. I'd like to help you--
    here, I have them tagged and labeled,
    neatly and in order of increasing irritation.

    But what? You have a box for me as well?
    --a rather stout and sturdy box,
    sealed with heavy-duty duct tape?
    Ah, Thanks.
    Thanks so very much.

    lori fiechter
    5-5-04

    

Aimless Air-boxing

(I Corinthians 9:26)

Fists flailing,
punching air,
missing the mark every time.
But oh, the energy expended!
And oh, how importantly busy I seem!
But I am striving without purpose,
without discipline,
without direction,
without results.
Aimlessly air-boxing;
Ready to teach you the same skill.
So fight I.