Now You See It, Now You Don’t
I wonder about the universe:
why there is something instead of nothing,
how planets and stars experience time
and if now is merely a human perception.
Astronomers theorize on why and how
while days turn like a book’s pages—
my novel nearing the end.
Though I lived in it, I didn’t know
there was a now until Ram Das told me
to be in it—to look, listen, smell, feel,
breathe and taste the moment.
I plan the future, probe my past,
and forget to be in the present,
where I age, yet feel ageless.
Now flows through me—a lifeline,
a tightrope, a sword.
Take me to a monastery—
let me finger beads
in now, for eternity.
The Nap
A dozen white pelican brides preen
on the island at Laguna Lake. Earlier
they swam in a circle corralling fish.
Now, huddled together, beaks tucked,
they form one big feather bed.
---------------------------------
Unless there’s a glitch, Garrison Keillor will
read one of my poems on Monday, November 3, on
NPR at 9.
Penciled in Press
Garrison Keillor, host of A Prairie Home
Companionâ and of The Writer's Almanacâ, would
like to include a poem by Jeanie Greensfelder in
his program. We understand you hold rights to
the poem, and I am writing to arrange permission
include it on The Writer’s Almanac.
The poem and broadcast date are: “First Love”
Biting the Apple Jeanie Greensfelder November
3, 2014
The Writer’s Almanac is a daily radio program
produced by American Public Media (APM). In
each program Mr. Keillor presents a list of
cultural events and anniversaries, many
associated with literature and literary figures,
then ends with the poetry reading. APM
currently distributes the program for broadcast
to about 600 non-commercial public radio
stations around the country. The program audio
is also streamed and podcast from and archived
on the APM website at
http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org and
may be streamed and archived on carrying station
websites as well.
|
From Morro Bay to the Baja
On Morro Bay’s Embarcadero, things happen.
Seals and dogs bark at each other. Fishermen
unload and weigh their catch as pelicans
and seagulls seize dropped cod.
Out on the wharf, I talk with two men
repairing a fifty-foot sailboat, planning
their trip to Mexico. I admire their spirit,
and share my longing to see the Baja.
They invite me to join them.
Yet I head home on Highway One
to fix dinner for my husband, watch TV,
floss, brush my teeth and go to bed.
I want adventure, yet I choose routine.
You never know about adventures—the open seas
could bore me day after day. Those cute guys
might want a cook or someone to scrub decks.
You never know about routines—I’m home,
and, after dinner, as I wash dishes, the sponge
floating on the water turns into a sailboat.
I nudge it toward shore and I’m in the Baja.
December 23, 1962
At age twenty-two
I parked my old Dodge,
and sat there for the longest time
imagining Christmas morning
when I’d see my three-year-old
uncover her own stove
made from an end table,
doors added, burners painted,
and discover tiny plastic pans,
sunny-side up eggs, and a spatula.
I wanted to unwrap that moment,
and live two childhoods at once.
|
