136/365: Ed Norton Fantasy Poem #11, Magic Giant Ivory Sea Canoe

Ed told me that he has been taking lessons
so that he can build us a giant ivory sea canoe.
Clearly, he's mad, but I like to humour him,
because his improbable inventions make me happy.

He says that its large size is what would make his canoe sea-ready,
and its ivory exterior would ensure
both smooth sailing and the appearance of great wealth,
which is often predicated on ignorant destruction.
I can hardly argue with him.
Who doesn't want to look well off?

There will be a girl goat, Ed said,
because they're nicer than boy goats,
because the boat would be our home, and homes need pets,
and we would rig up an on-board water distillation system,
so that we could save space for other cargo,
like all the breakfast waffles we will need for our journey.

Ed refuses to pick a precise destination,
because, as he keeps telling me,
a giant ivory sea canoe can be nothing but magic,
by which he means
that we're just going to plunk ourselves down in the ocean
and let the Fates drag our sea canoe around the planet.
I am somewhat sceptical,
but Ed is an incurable romantic
and obviously a great believer in magic giant ivory sea canoes
with a goat that, he assures me,
can both mow and fertilize her own food patch.

I haven't yet asked what kind of lessons he is taking
to make our magic giant ivory sea canoe a reality,
but I have faith in Ed,
and, as long as his lessons aren't about
how to kill and dismember wild elephants for their tusks,
I am along for the ride.

Let the magic giant ivory sea canoe adventure commence!
Ed yells over the whine of a band saw.

His excitement must be contagious,
because the goat just unloaded
an impressive amount of fertilizer
on its patch of grass.

This may work out after all.

135/365: To Be Loved and Seen and Held

Who doesn't want this?
To be loved and seen and held
through all of their days?
I am so blessed to have you,
just one soul to hold my hand.



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The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

134/365: Joy Is a Madness

My heart is freed open to joy
with the bliss
of the pendulum's deep drop.

None of this matters,
because all things are erased into anonymity by death.
All of this matters,
because all things are erased into anonymity by death.
Both are true.

We hold it in the moment's sway
through all and nothing,
nothing and all,
all and nothing,
nothing and all,
all and nothing.

Joy is the madness
of both in one
hung in the unbound space
between left and right.

133/365: Humid Hurry

Asphalt,
softened still by old heat
late at night after a first hot day,
bends to the heel
that presses through
the slick of rainwater
inking the ground.
Thunder thrums heavy and low,
thickening the air with ozone
and the animal familiarity
of humid hurry.

132/365: Tedium

I eat to survive.
Later, I will defecate.
I'll inhale, exhale.
Some days, this is tedium,
and it devours my will.



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The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.