The play on the word crumb tickled me. First is the obvious meaning: something small such as a fragment of bread or a cake. And the by-product of something small like a fragment. Maybe something so small you can barely see it. Joy should never be small, even if it is fleeting.
Then there’s the other meaning of crumb: Someone who is an objectionable person. If joy was personified or an object, would it be a crumb? Nosiree. Joy would be a cake, definitely a three layer delight.
Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.
“Wrong was easy: gravity helped it. Right is difficult and long.” Wendell Berry
I lifted this quote from a blog called earthwealwhere Brendan writes essays on nature and climate change and posts related poetry challenges. His posts are insightful, loving, hopeful and beautiful and might inspire you to pick up your pen in your thirst for peace in CoVid time.
The quote from Wendell Berry struck me as appropriate for the challenge we face during the pandemic – giving up convenience and what we used to think of as normal for doing something that might be a lot harder and take much longer than the time it takes to drink our double-shot caramel macchiato.
These days time feels like an ice-cube in August. Stay cool, friends.
P.S. – In case you hadn’t noticed, I am posting less frequently as I work on a long project. If you’d like, you can find me on Instagram where I drop pictures of my adorable dog or from my daily walks. No politics, no platform, no mean memes. I am NOT an influencer, just a human.
Social media and I have an uneasy history and the account is private so if I don’t recognize your name, I won’t confirm the follow request. There are limits, dear people.
Your stride is a rubber ball bouncing down the street.
You ribbed, “Scientists studied my feet to improve
rocket launchers, and they said my feet hear
heat and that’s why there’s air beneath my heels.”
On Gower Street that rotten urchin, Andy,
called you “Springs”. I expect he’s dead now,
little shit, or living in the Goulds with the missus,
his Lazy-boy recliner stick rubbed shiny,
the carpet farting mouldy biscuit and white bread
aroma from 40 years of spilled Black Horse lager.
Womp womp. But you – thank you! – bounced us
out of there.
“You’ll find your soul mate too late,” wasn’t true.
I knew the deal when I saw your naked feet, not
bionic or battery operated at all, just wide, muscles
at ease. They smelled like sweat and antifungal
cream. You exceeded the dream I never had and
after all these years you still bounce like that boy,
your head bob-bobbing above the rest, your
eternal spring our crow’s nest.
Written for d’Verse‘s prompt “thankfulness” and posted in open link night. Lovely work to be read there. Pop over and discover poets and poetry to suit all tastes.
I want to be one of those shimmering
stick figures framed in my bedroom window
under glass as they meander to the point,
quivering in the glitter of sun on waves.
Their dog trots forward to the high and dry
marker buoy while the other two straggle,
appear, disappear, appear in the play of light.
They turn shoreward and I lose sight of them.
I pull on shoes still gritty from yesterday’s walk,
head for wave-shaped rocks, pick
through barnacle spotted tide pools,
around boulders covered in kelp hair,
gulping Fundy’s perfume – gull shit,
sun-roasted dulse, tidal mud –
crunch sand, crush shells.
Behind me today’s footprints
will soon wash away
in the rising tide. I scan
the shoreline for the
window and hail
of it all.
Helvetica’s Viking vengeance
pounds rage, warns
Times Roman’s time’s up,
his sagging crown
burned coffee and
three teaspoons of sugar
congealed in a chipped mug
has nothing fresh to say
but what the hell,
at least is true
Trust me, Didot ain’t it,
linked by sonorific
association to an object – also
not my type. Neither is
a slab-serif screeching
hoary huckster grabbing
space above the fold.
No! Give me
a soft touch. Open Sans
for me, baby.
A daisy scented field
where I read
between the lines,
that’s my type.