Poem of the Day

Carpet

I saw once in Jaipur an upper room

filled with rows of boys

embroidering saris

stretched taut on open frames

kneeling

their eyes squinting close as the golden thread

vanished and appeared in the silk.

In the room below, a wiry man

flung water from buckets over

freshly-woven carpet.

Whiskered, shirtless,

he brushed the water with

a bundle of reeds

to open the fibers.

Vibrant blues and crimsons

bloomed through the soap suds

with each swishing stroke.

The factory owner surveyed his kingdom

with knees spread wide

lauding the workmanship

driving a bargain

dressing the floors of my home.

His belly ballooned over its

gleaming belt buckle

oiled shoes two-stepping

back from the sludge.

The man with the reeds

bent sharply at the waist

peering closely at the golden weave

refusing to lift his eyes.

Poem of the Day

In honor of my favorite time of day...

Compline

Sleep
is falling
off the bright
ledge of the world
into the arms
of God.

Ordinary

Without apologies or explanation, lets just say I'm venturing into the blogging world again.  This time without any agenda but to share the weight and wonder I keep finding ordinary life.  Without further ado, here is the first venture, my poem of the day.

 Public Library

There is a woman in the corner

beneath the plate-glass window

she clutches her belongings in a canvas sack

its seam slowly unraveling

she mutters stories to herself

and any who will hear

as if she were the children's librarian

gathering a semi-circle of bodies at her feet

hands animated, eyes laughing

as if she were the book itself

the afternoon sun

spilling upon her open pages

I am sitting on the red carpet two shelves over

reading Rita Dove

I cannot hold on to the poem in my hands

I hear only this poem in my ears