LIFE AT 240

5 MINUTES | 10 POEMS

LILACS!

For all the reasons I love the month of May, one that brings me great joy is the splendor of lilacs. Their perfume wafts through our open windows, and it’s heaven on earth. If you were here, I’d offer you a bouquet. This month I wrote poems about a walk around our yard, abstract expressionism, artificial intelligence, obituaries, space & time, my favorite thing, my best poem, old hands, a man’s grief, and snake cookies. One of the reasons I write poems is to help me see the unnoticed wonders and curiosities in my life. I hope you are astonished at least once every day. It’s all such a mystery, isn’t it? Sending love your way, and I hope you enjoy the poems. I also hope you write some and share them with me. — Mary May

I left for a walk to look anew
to discover wonders I’d strolled by
but stopped on the porch to see my shoe
I’d never noticed how shades of blue
soothe my eye and mirror the sky

once down the stairs to resume my trip
the remnants of puddles at my feet
I spied a beetle taking a sip
when the tree above let loose a drip
and sent the insect to quick retreat

these afternoon hours in rapture spent
no small marvel did my heart discard
from flower to bird to rock I went
wondering what such miracles meant
and why they each lived in my backyard

this is our true home, the earth, the trees
the tiny seed and the massive sky
the wispy clouds and spring’s warm breeze
to splendor I fell on bended knees
not where, not who, but forever why

sights don’t matter much to me
it only matters how I see

there are things I don’t speak about
things that are too magnificent to me
to be trivialized by conversation
to be reduced to words

I paint them in my mind
colors whirled in 12 dimensions
crumpled 
replicating
folding back
unbounded

I have no language for this

There will be hardware
adorned with code
there will be learning
set to explode

quantum computers’
computation
will mimic our brains
emulation

do we transcend the
turing machine
is singularity
truly a dream

yes evolution
tends to get stuck
so do brains made of
chemical muck

our growth curves flatten
meaning’s deferred
we are quite finite
purpose is blurred

machine learning grows
can’t sheath the knife
evidence: growth
machines become life

“Growth is the only evidence of life.” - St. John Henry Newman

Obituaries
there’s nothing sadder

death itself is tragic enough
without those sparse lines
those absurd details
minimizing the fragile wonder
and eternal magnificence
of a human life

name
age
descendants
occupation

the brutal efficiency
of these necrologies
reduces epic legends
to trivia

no more obits

instead
when we die
let us be written
on the hearts of the people who loved us

I promise I will write you on mine

Today 
she asked me 
to list my favorite things

I thought of the bricks that build a life
book titles
inspiring people
delicious foods
moments of awe
wonderful movies
simple pleasures
loved ones
life’s milestones
big wins 
close calls

but I have just one favorite thing
(not a brick at all)
it’s the in-between parts

the soft hum of abiding love
when nothing particular is happening
when we simply embrace
life’s moments together

although the bricks delight me
my favorite part is the mortar

I always thought my hands were pretty
because when I was young
my mother said so

she envied them more each year
as trauma snarled her fingers
as arthritis swelled her knuckles
as age thinned and marred 
her crinkled, translucent skin 

she’d say
you could be a hand model
you know I used to have pretty hands once

now I’m the crone
with weathered hands
worn from over seventy years
of use and abuse

but I feel no envy
nor sense of grief 

as if by some magical palmistry
each imperfection 
adds to the beauty 
of these wizened hands

I see the adventures
of the once broken fingers
I see the sweetness of 
stories in scars and stitches
of onions chopped
of lumber nailed
of flowers planted
of laundry folded
of babies held
of poems written
of love’s caress

I see the abiding reminder
of my impermanence

I always thought my mother’s hands were pretty
now I see them in my own

sometimes
I close my eyes and caress my face
just to feel her hands on my cheek

[TIME CARRIES ME*]
what pomposity
to think time needed me 
to manage my hours 

as of today
I aged 616,080 hours
without effort

[SPACE CARRIES ME*]
what hubris
to think my tiny interactions 
mattered to the cosmos 

as of today
I traveled 842,191,217,280 miles
without effort

[WISDOM]
if the experience 
of space and time
is overwhelmingly effortless 
why should we flail through life
when we can float  
like the stars 
from which we’re born

*Scientists have calculated that “our galaxy is traveling at about 2.2 million kilometers per hour relative to the cosmic background radiation which pervades the universe.”
2.2 million kilometers per hour = 1,367,016 miles per hour
70 years + 120 days (my age) = 616,080 hours
1,367,016 mph * 616,080 hrs = 842,191,217,280 miles

Tonight 
my weary fingers 
rest on the keys
like a priestess
laying hands
praying for a blessing

I am quiet and still
too tired to think
hoping my fingers
will type a holy poem
without my meddling

I wait
though time has ceased
I sink 
as my breathing slows
I drift 
to the edge of sleep

when my head 
bobs me awake
I open my eyes 
to a blinking cursor’s alchemy

a perfect blank page
there is nothing more poetic 

As she lays on the bed
she feels him take her hand
he can’t let go

he fights back tears
his words hide in his throat
he can’t say good-bye

he leans over
and kisses her forehead
he will love her forever

tears roll down his cheeks
only he can hear her whisper
as her breath becomes air

For several years now there has been an ongoing cookie baking contest between me and Ugly Bugly, the witch who torments me. What started out as an innocent baking rivalry has recently escalated into a life-threatening feud. If you want to skip right to the Snake Cookies poem, scroll down to the end — but if you want to understand the horrific story of why I wrote the poem, read this first.

It was all a big misunderstanding. I was having a Snake Day party with my littlest grandchildren. One of the activities was baking snake cookies. It started out well enough. The kids formed their cookie dough with artistic flair, even Keith got involved and taught us how to use broken toothpicks to make an armature so the coiled Cobras would stand upright. 

They were baking well enough, but then something went horribly wrong. When the timer buzzed, we removed the cookie sheet to find one giant cookie in the shape of the pan. We learned armatures don’t help cookie dough act like clay. All the vertical dough was now horizontal and melted everything together. 

Being resourceful, we decided to cut snake shapes out of the giant cookie rectangle so we could still have some fun decorating. The kids worked carefully with their plastic knives until we had nice squiggly snakes cooling. 

When Keith wandered back into the kitchen to see how things were going, he was shocked. “You can’t eat those,” he ordered. “The little pieces of toothpicks could get lodged in your throat and kill you.”

We knew there were seven little pokey spears somewhere in those snakes, so we started breaking them apart to try to find them. By the time we were done, there were no snakes left, only cookie crumbs and sadness. And that’s not even the bad part!

A few days later, a plate of snake cookies and a letter from Ugly Bugly arrived in the enchanted portal on our fence. You can always tell if a letter is really from Ugly Bugly because it will do something magical when you photograph it, like change to a different color. It was clear, the witch was not happy with me. She thought I had started the cookie contest without telling her so I could win, but the truth is it was just a cooking craft project. I knew I was in serious peril.

I delivered all this to the Cookie Contest judges aka grandchildren. Now it was time for them to squeeze her fancy cookies to see if anything disgusting squirted out, time to sniff them for signs of evil, and time to work up the courage to take a bite (sometimes they taste terrible). After the taste test, the kid’s said they looked and tasted very good.

I thought if I wrote a poem to the judges and the witch about the misunderstanding, trying to explain, showing my remorse, and encouraging them to pick Ugly Bugly as the winner, I would not be cursed or killed by the angry and dangerous witch. Unfortunately, Ugly Bugly was not forgiving and she just used my poem as evidence of my guilt.

My life was in the hands of the judges. If they liked the pile of cookie crumbs better, I would win. If they liked the witchy but beautiful snake cookies, Ugly Bugly would win and perhaps be declared the Best Baker forever! Thanks for reading this far. Now, finally, here is the damning “evidence” poem.  

SNAKE COOKIES

I tried but they just didn’t work
there must have been a wicked quirk

I noticed a peculiar smell
bewitched by someone’s magic spell

all baked into a great big square
not a single snake was there

the armatures were melted too
so none of us would dare to chew

wooden spears laid in the dough
and by the window sat a crow

we tried to find them one by one
just broken crumbs when we were done

I didn’t know I’d be so sad
or Ugly Bugly’d be so mad

snake cookies caused a great big fight
and I didn’t sleep at all last night

soon my torture will begin
unless you let the green witch win!

Love, Granny

If you’re wondering what got me started writing poems, you’ll find the story here. Or, if you’re wondering why this collection is called Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read the past issues of Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read more of my poems, check out my website: Life at 240.

If you know someone who you think would enjoy these poems, please feel free to forward this email to them. If you’re reading this poetry letter for the first time, you can subscribe here to get ten poems emailed to you at the beginning of each month.

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