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
By Jean O'Sullivan - Observe Your World - Say Something! If you don't pay attention, you can easily be fooled. There's a sucker born every minute, don't let it be you. The invisible landscape of the soul shapes the visible landscape of the world. Make your contribution in concert with a clear conscience and a compassionate heart.
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
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)
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
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)
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)
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