O Foxtail

O foxtail, 

in your own way 

pretty 

as a rose—

just please

stay out 

of the 

dog’s 

paws

and

n

o

s

e.

Rediscovered from April 3, 2019

Bee Here Now

I watched a bumblebee

in the paloverde tree

sampling sugars from small yellow flowers.

And for a while

there was no history 

except as regarded the lineage of the bee.

March 15, 2022 (rediscovered 2024)

Herewhere

A casual coffee meeting for a job candidate, get to know you kind of gathering.

We started talking about names, and how three men in the office are named John, well, one is a Jonathan.

Somehow the question of Beatles' names came up:

"Yes," said one person, "there is a John... I don't know the rest. Wait: is Ringo one of them?"

Cognitive dissonance

How old am I?

One of the other Johns, a week older than I,

we made eye contact checking our internal calendars

for historical structure and context:

Are we set in another column now?

How could the Beatles not have carried over?

They made guesses at the other Beatles' names.

John said, "...Paul... ..." which led them to...

naming the Spice Girls.

I exclaimed:

"George Harrison!"

(There is no comparison).

"Georrrrge..." one said; the name had struck a familiar chord.

The madness of this world aside,

the plastic and the politics and the

unrest and forced emigrations and the

hashtag me too men and the 

murderers and the 

people taking selfies with wild zoo animals and getting mini-mauled and the

dictators and there

is a lot to know about this world

and much to keep track of 

and history to know.

Children, listen.

Once in a great while,

chance meetings can make

relationships that fall into place

with such grace

as to bring something wonderful

beyond measure.

March 11, 2019, rediscovered 2024

Gift from the Gray

Toward the window:

what is that funny sound

crackling against the pane

it taps in rapid staccato

what phenomenon? It's the rain!

It seems that I forget it happens

between dry lengths of day to days

and even as the clouds gather

habitual thinking says

expect nothing. So joy ensues

when the song begins--

clapping introduction to a hymn 

of falling, refreshing

rain.

Let the 

soothing 

soak 

in.

(From the Found Poetry collection, From March 3, 2021)

A Walk—Just a Walk Outside

I got superstressed out today. Too many things to think about and not enough room not enough room not enough room too much to do at once at once at once so I put my face down into my hands, covering my eyes and taking a breather and looking at blackness. Not enough room in this whole wide world, not enough time in this clock that goes around and around all day? What compresses these things into urgency? "A walk - just a walk outside," I heard myself think. It was the most rational choice, so I went. On opening the door my mind seemed to catch its breath in the cool fresh air and as I walked the causes that demanded so much from me each slipped into gentle priority. The trees’ leaves, shining and beautiful, the squirrel on the green grass eating a tasty morsel in an aisle of golden sunlight, ah, and the sky, so blue and spacious, to the gentle voice that made the suggestion, I say thank you, you are so gracious.

From January 31, 2019 (rediscovered in 2024)

Flowerscape

A dry wind
rattles the petals of a small yellow flower
no bigger than a pebble
on a thin light green stalk
growing up from a struggling succulent
all by itself
against a red rocky desert-scape

the backdrop a plateau of sedimentary layers of wind sculpted sandstone.

And blue blue yellow hot sky above and around
it’s a wonder the little yellow flower persisted,
almost defying the wind but actually
just being there. Little yellow flower
petals making a shallow poppy cup around an orange red center.
And maybe a bee had come by, or would soon, 

but overall just this scene— forever, perhaps.

Then clouds. Moisture in the air. Raindrops one day.
Then more rain and more
over time, year after year and everything changed.
The sand absorbed what it could and a river became itself
little stones washed from the plateaus
and rocks rolled to the flow of water
and pools formed
and then more water and time and clouds made this their vacation land, always coming back,
and green was sprouting up on the new river banks.

More green and more and for years every year a little more rain came
and the little yellow flower on the light green stalk propagated and proliferated in patches,
even reaching the plateau, perching on rock shelves
and waving to flower neighbors in soft breezes in early evenings.

Birds arrived, and trees sprouted and grew, bringing shade.
And even the rocks seemed to soften, their edges rounding with borrowed mud.
And the water stayed all year long, inviting fish and insects that buzzed about and of course frogs.
All this life appeared because it could.

Now lush and green and flowering and musical with birdsong and breezes in trees and grasses,
with chirps and croaking and hoof steps and paws padding.

With all this sound, so much peace.

The little yellow flower, which had regenerated over generations,
now shimmied in the breezes, among others of its kind and complimentary,
in concert with paradise, because it could.

Jeanosullivan, January 26, 2024