Some problems
Cannot be solved with money
Do not have a clear cause
Do not hide behind words
Some problems
Appear out of nowhere
They live right where we do
Like furniture or crockery
On the table or in the sideboard
Or like the view from the window
On a clear day, or at dawn
When winter sets in
Summer days will be frozen
In the photo archive of years gone by
Memories will flood back
And there are no problems
Some problems, fortunately
Disappear of their own accord
Without anyone’s involvement
Like snowflakes melting in the air.
We can mortify our flesh,
wear our sign of confession,
perform our penance,
bear portions of scratchy sackcloth
so rough, so abrasive, against our bare backs.
Our sideboard now bears such a treasure,
three posies, nosegays, tussie-mussies,
bound in such pieces that would
love to scratch at our naked flesh
if we pressed it against our chests, our bellies, our backs.
Do we think of our past - our past’s own past?
Do we ignore all history
as we glance at, or disregard,
those posies, nosegays, tussie-mussies,
that sit in scratchy sackcloth?
(11 Dec 2023)
I spot him scooting along the dining room sideboard
Twitching all over, he peers into the kitchen
Cautiously, he advances a step or two
then he pulls up, looks around, sniffs the air...
Continues, moving within easy range of my broom
poised to whack him senseless
One more step, you feeble rodent...
Ha! Your guts are coming out of your mouth
P- Poetry Soup is like a buffet sideboard
O - Offering tasty treats, nostalgic and informative
E - Experiencing entrees from around the world while
T - Tweaking our own creative fare and making
R - Remarks for the patrons of our choosing
Y - You can’t beat PS for a challenging cuisine
S - Spend some time here every day
O - Opportunities to make friends abound
U - Underscoring a grand purpose from the start to
P - Provide an encouraging venue for poets
August 15, 2022
Sponsor Beata Agustin
Contest Name POETRY SOUP BEYOND ITS NAME
in the corridors of this endless labyrinth every corner hides the abominable, like your last sad diagnosis, crumpled up and thrown on the old sideboard, or my pale face in the embarrassing portrait, still scared of the storm that made the sunflowers disappear from the city, because this is a suffering in thick drops, it descends slow and bad through the cold walls and within all the medicines we find no solution, even trying to corrupt happiness with false therapies or keeping and forgetting the tickets of our trips to illusion, but now not even the broken armchair misses of our pain while it rots quietly in another dark corridor, in the abandoned house a mummified grasshopper lies beside the little boxes with padlocks, as if we could keep the screams of the wind that toppled our world, or if we could still see and follow in the footsteps of who we would never be again, it was you who tasted the sour void, you who saw the exit sign that time swallowed, It's really good not knowing who we were, because if we've lost each other forever and I'm no longer allowed to remember, the mirror of memory did well when it broke
all device features are described in the manual,
but we are still unruly in the streets,
I needed to know a lot more about fractions
that hide between the numbers one and two,
measure the exact extent of each shadow in the sky of life
and really understand why we are lost here,
shopping endlessly in the bazaars,
acquiring picturesque items
to decorate the porch of our posterity,
as if we foresaw our descendants and,
wanting to impress them,
we would put an elephant bibelot on the sideboard of pain,
a postmodern armchair next to the stairs for nothing
and further back,
the opaque mirror of our confused, painful,
almost unnecessary existence.
again the dawn is ugly around here
winter in the streets and in us installed
cold pupils stare into the void of eternity
the miniature elephants on the sideboard
fill this life thrown away
only insecure years await us
meaningless situations
soon we will be despondent organisms
and if we were burning in the desert
flying to pieces in space
or even dipped in the dark sea
what difference would it make?
we're speeding towards nothing
From across the park I see the house,
Open windows spilling pools of light
Onto the wide wraparound porch.
As I walk nearer, I take a look inside.
On the walls, framed paintings
And a cluster of family photographs,
Over-stuffed furniture, a little worn,
Sleepy dog on a towel on the chair.
Through the side window I see
Shelves crammed with stacks of books,
A daybed, cluttered desk with a computer,
Drawing table, a rack of supplies.
Candles on the dining room table,
Mahogany and glass china closet,
Old fashioned sideboard with
A slightly tarnished silver tea service.
Upstairs, lights glow behind shades,
But in the kitchen a cheery brightness!
Someone moving, talking, carrying a plate
And laughing at some unknown joke!
What sort of people live in this house?
I think I know - comfortable, unpretentious
People, real, who live and love and care.
Heart full, I tread the steps up to my porch!
The carpet was worn -
The pattern thin in some places,
But it was a “good” rug,
A real original Oriental.
We had others, too, and a
Silver tea service, slightly tarnished,
(Sterling, of course)
On the mahogany sideboard.
The upholstery on the
Living room chairs
Was a little tired, but
It was good “quality” furniture.
And we were descended from
Someone who came over
To this country on the Mayflower!
Mantras I heard many times
When I was growing up
In a “good” neighborhood
My parents could ill afford.
Mantras offered when I complained
That my friends had new furniture
Or prettier rugs, or, even worse,
Wall to wall carpeting.
No penny loafers for me –
I had a serviceable pair of shoes.
The “new” skirt was handed down
From a neighbor’s daughter.
Store clothes were from sales
And always “practical”.
Only years later did I finally
Realize my mother was making
The best of the hard times
And gave up much for us.
It was her way of trying
To make us proud of ourselves
And our heritage, to make up
For the things she couldn’t give us.
The air, warm, unmoved, clings to our bodies
Like an old, familiar blanket.
From the west, the light,
A warm amber brew, pours down
And is strained through the leaves of the nearby gums
It fills the veranda and spills through the shuttered windows
In a gentle rippling stream,
To settle thickly on the timber floor.
A lone cicada breaks the stillness
In the drawing room
We sit and chat,
She and I and tea
Passing pleasantries with the milk and sugar.
She rests, motionless, amongst the ornaments
Reflecting the soft glow of late afternoon
An image of her mother’s mother, sepia gold,
Smiling from the sideboard
Fifty years, trapped by the glass
Fifty years cornered by a silver square.
Alive once more, she sits before me
Talking of Mossvale and Mulberries.
Beyond the window, the air,
Dusty with the incense of dry bark,
Hangs lifeless from the branches of the gums,
Where a solitary cicada sings to the setting sun.
The cock crows
Cock a doodle doo.
I am up in bed.
In my study, while
revising my writing
hear the Cuckoo's call.
Coo, coo it caws without
break. Distracted,
I bang the window,
As I walk down the aisle
to collect the news papers
a raven caws in a croaked voice.
Placing the paper on the sideboard,
the love call of the peacock
holds me for awhile/
Opening the backyard.
the sparrows while pecking
chirp incessantly.
The day has begun well.
Birds and I work together.
Our portfolios well in order
Whatever happened
To afternoon tea
Served around four o-clock
It used to be a daily ceremony
Out came a pretty cloth
From an old sideboard drawer
To put on a small table
Used many times before
On to this table
Doylies and napkins placed
Precisely and carefully
There was no need to race
Then came the china
A person's very best
Teapot and cosy
And an antique spoon rest
Fairy cubes of sugar
Along with bowl and tongs
Wireless playing softly
To the now old-fashioned songs
Now to the best part, the spread
Oh! the spread
Everything home-made
Especially the bread
Assorted sandwiches, sometimes ham
Mostly it was scones with cream and jam
Nothing elaborate just wholesome fare
Loving-kindness sprinkled there
Not a Macdonalds to be seen long ago
And preservatives were not so prevalent
So, most grew their own vegetables
And had gardens with fruit trees
Used old-fashioned methods
To nurture these
They grew organic without realising
Healthy, rewarding and very enterprising
We built ourselves a dream and sent it high into a blue sky,
Watched as the gods crushed it between their thighs-
cried as they threw it back down to earth- tiny pieces like rain,
our dream fell from above like a broken earthenware pot.
Remember how we gathered up the fragments and re-built it?
how then we sat it upon the old sideboard- below the mirror.
Recall how we stood on a high mountain and cried out to the Eagle-
as she soared above us, and the sun sparkled on the sea below us;
how we waited for darkness- a sky full of a thousand stars and an Owl-
from Athena settled on an old tree.
Our dream- renewed and undeterred and whispered silently to the wise one-
and how we watched as she flew with it over the moon.
sideboard
breakfast
piece
The Art Show
At the art exhibition, it was about metal
craftily shaped to resemble tulips and roses
polished to mirror sharpness, and there were
trees made of barbered wire and a painting
made out of coat hangers, the type the give
at the laundry and filling up your closet.
There were many buyers, what do you do with
a steel vase with ditto steel roses, not in
the living room or the dining table, perhaps in
the study on a sideboard and forgotten.
Do metal roses rust, can they be rinsed under
the sink and dry in the sunlight.
It was spring outside a beautiful lawn and many
a variety of flowers and trees but that is not art.
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