Poetry: The Main Course

by Julia K. Dinsmore in My Name is CHILD of GOD . . . Not "Those People": A First-Person Look at Poverty

(Amen, sister. My resolution for 2008 is to have more attitude like Julia. On behalf of all good real women out there, still waiting and worth waiting for . . . )

I ain't no appetizer you can nibble here and there.
I'm not a side dish either, believe me if you care.
I'm sweeter than dessert and more delicious than a treat.
My fuzzy-navel nectar gonna knock you off your feet.
I ain't a bag of chips you can munch on now and then.
And that's real good for you,
'cuz salty oil is not your friend.
I'm not a Mountain Dew, or a Kool-Aid, or some tea.
A drink of me refreshes and brings serenity.
I'm not sloppy seconds upon a dirty plate.
My portion is enough your hunger to abate.
If you haven't figured out by now, I ain't no
Midnight munchie,
Or the crunchy in the nut mix,
Or the funky fast-food lunchy.
I'm the main course, daddy, Number 1, and one and only,
A feast of finest splendor that would never
Leave you lonely.
I'm the main course, daddy, my plate is all you need.
My taste is that of succulence, nowhere else
You'll want to feed.
I'm not leftover hot dish warmed up in a pan.
My meat is fresh and sizzlin' hot, and kept up for a man.
A man who can appreciate dining at its best,
Saving up his appetite for rib, and thigh, and breast.
You see . . . I'm the main course, daddy, and that's
All I'll ever be. Go ahead and eat your junk food,
'Cuz you won't be tastin' me!

Trial and Error

My sister is in grad school for sociology. For some research projects she has to get approval of her methods due to considerations of propriety when doing experiments with human subjects.

It occurs to me that any relationship or interaction is an experiment with a human subject. Parenting especially. We could all stand to be more mindful of that as we go about our lives.

In The Magician’s Nephew by C.S. Lewis, the creation story of Narnia, Aslan says to the human boy Digory, “Grief is great. Only you and I in this land know that yet. Let us be good to one another.”

Grief is indeed great. Let us be good to one another.

Poetry: If Still Your Orchards Bear

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Brother, that breathe the August air
. . . Ten thousand years from now,
And smell--if still your orchards bear
. . . Tart apples on the bough--

The early windfall under the tree,
. . . And see the red fruit shine,
I cannot think your thoughts will be
. . . Much different from mine.

Should at that moment the full moon
. . . Step forth upon the hill,
And memories hard to bear at noon,
. . . By moonlight harder still,

Form in the shadows of the trees,--
. . . Things that you could not spare
And live, or so you thought, yet these
. . . All gone, and you still there,

A man no longer what he was,
. . . Nor yet the thing he'd planned,
The chilly apple from the grass
. . . Warmed by your living hand--

I think you will have need of tears;
. . . I think they will not flow;
Supposing in ten thousand years
. . . Men ache, as they do now.

Grace by Pomegranate

Pomegranates are the quintessential procrastination food—an excellent source of cheap therapy and probably some vitamins too. They’re downright enthralling and they taste as lovely as they look. I treat myself to several of them each winter and I never get bored with them. I suppose this proves that I am easily entertained by strange things and suffering from a mild case of OCD, but I find it quite soothing to carefully pry open each section, revealing another collection of cheerful deep-red juicy bits to be gently detached and popped into my mouth one by one. Pomegranates are yet another example of the gratuitous intricacy of creation. It baffles me that anyone could experience one and still believe that the world happened by accident.