Barefoot Beach Weekend

The Absence of Want

Don’t remember before

feeling this,

the absolute absence of want.

In need of nothing

not food, not amusement nor funds

I sit here – absorbing the flight of the hawk overhead.

Complete attention

with peace in the space where empty  usually sits.

Empty is heavy and dull,

sucks the energy from my body;

a chunk of obsidian that sits inside my chest.

The absence of want feels . . .

refreshing.

A spiritual drink.

Soft – the way the

blue water of Lake Michigan

looks at my feet.

This moment – you gave me

a gift hauled up – whole

from the sand, far below.

A gift worth no price

No charge

My heart is full –

no room for empty,

want of nothing.

tsr

9-4-11

Just sayin' . . .

PHENOMENAL WOMAN

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing of my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,

They say they still can't see.

I say

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

The palm of my hand,

The need of my care,

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

  

from And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou.

Really?

Who told you that $3

Is appropriate tip for a $22 dinner tab?

That smiling girl – who was at our table

over and over again,

filling, checking, toting, fetching.

We sat there for an hour and a half

She filled our drinks 3 times.

$3 -  really?

Why is it that

the kindest most generous men don’t see

that all that work,

is worth more than $3?

1/25/11

tsr

Twice in my recent dating history I have excused myself, pretended to go to the bathroom, and tipped the waitress more than was left with the bill.  The third time I just put cash on the table right in front of my date.  It is a particular hang-up of mine.  The majority of wait staff are women and many of them head single parent households.

It’s a generalization but men seem particularly unaware that the base pay is miniscule.  It’s a very difficult job and I can’t imagine doing it.  Girlfriends and I have discussed this.  We think it's fairly common.


"Tipping is optional" said a young man once.  "Not when you're with me" was my reply.

The thing to ponder is - should bad tipping be added to my list of non-negotiable things?  That list is generally reserved for things like homophobia, racism and the narrow minded.  Should it include devaluing people who serve you?

Hmmmmm . . . .

Last July

I wrote this poem last July.  I was reading back through things to find something worthy to post.  Friends have now commented that I haven't added anything new, so . . . pressure builds.

The dance circles around you

on your dais – with your gavel.

Pronouncements  follow -

who is worthy . .. who is not.

Each step analyzed.

Must be within prescribed limits -

within strict control.

Must be nice to be so certain

that you are the ultimate judge

of their worthy submission.

7/12/10 

tsr

I always end my poems the way my mother did.  You could tell hers from others that she collected because she ended with her initials and the date.  I liked that idea, so I've done the same since I was in fourth grade.  Since I collect snippets from everyone – whether written or said by pretty much anyone around me, I need a system. 

The question I'm asking myself today is . . . what was this poem about?  I wasn't actively involved with the legal system so it's a metaphor.  I have no memory of the disagreement that precipitated this poem.  I can tell that I felt judged – apparently negatively. 

I suppose I could investigate.  Look back in Facebook, emails, my pda.  Who was I feeling answerable to?  Who was I so afraid of? 

The truth is I’d rather not know.  The thing about art is that it captures that moment as perfectly as it can.  The imperfection is the things that are missing – the negative space that it does not capture.  In some ways I think that the unsaid says as much as what is said.  The unadorned canvas is very much a part of the overall impression of the art itself.

The larger context of the poem, although interesting, really wasn’t meant to be captured.  So, what I know is that on July 12^th . . . this was where I was.  That is enough for me.

Bring Me the Shivers

Bring me the shivers of a cold winter day.
Good weather for snuggling, puppy on my lap
under a blanket while I read a great book.

Bring me the shivers of a scary story.
Read in the dark night,
surrounded by silent house.

Bring me the shivers of holding a hand.
Kissing in the dark
at the end of a sweet night.

Bring me the shivers of holding a new baby.
The smell of new life.
The joy of renewal.

Bring me the shivers of standing in a spot
where I feel that no one
has stood before.

Bring me the shivers of the earth from above.
Watch it slip by the clouds
as I hurdle through the sky.

Bring me the shivers of a strange airport
Where no one speaks English
while I follow the signs to a train.

Bring me the shivers
Of Life!!!