grandparents: they got up at four
in the morning, fixed breakfast,
ate, cleaned up and then they
sat. That was it. Except for
minor excursions to the bathroom,
a chore or two, that was what
they did. They sat. It made
me nervous. I was young and in
high school and didn't exactly
know what I wanted to do. But
I knew what I didn't want to
do: I didn't want to sit.
Night fell and they went to bed.
Their sitting was over. Can
this be life? I wondered. It
was for them. I couldn't
understand it. Now, at 73,
I get up in the morning, fix
coffee, take my cup to my easy
chair, light a cigarette and
then I sit. I sit and drink
coffee and smoke until I'm
finished. Then if something
needs doing, I do it. And then
I make another cup of coffee
or walk over to the coffee shop
and I sit again. Sometimes I
don't even think. Can this
be a life? I guess it is.
Sometimes I get restless and
have to do something. But
often I don't. A lot that I
set out to accomplish has been
accomplished. A lot will
never be. But at this stage
of my life, there appears a
new art to be mastered: the
art of sitting. Compared to
my grandparents, I'm still a
novice. But there's hope.
After all, I practice every day.
June 19, 2001
Editor's Note: The Pecan Press Poetry Editor, Nancy Taylor Day, encourages submissions from all of the neighborhood's aspiring poets. Please note that her email address is now mailto:NancyLTD@netzero.com.
Artwork in the sky
dance and change and disappear
entertain the eye
One can no more fathom what others know
Nor can they from a solemn visage learn
What one thinks, all the details one discerns
No display makes for elaborate show
But we can share a pomegranate's taste
Endless seeds to drink, squeezing the ripe juice
Rip it in half, break it open and loose
Peeling away the whitish pith sans grace
But finally we're holding useless lumps
No more teeming with that syrupy stain
Laying in solace upon that refrain
Where is that measure that gambols and jumps?
Rather than hold onto dander and dust
That sweet can linger forever with us
