I tip toe down the hall
into the kitchen
Trying not to make a sound
Attune to the noises
The steps that I take
Items I move
My God the coffee machine grinding beans is horrendously loud!
Having guests in the house
Acute awareness rises
A mirror shines on personal routines
It’s too early for normal people
I pretend to be a ghost
But my body feels heavy
It’s not at all convincing
I open the front door
Peer into the darkness
Sigh happily
Stars
The damp smell of grass
Rising
The stair is quiet
All heat from yesterday flown
I sit and think
As quiet as a mouse
Where does that term come from?
All the mice I have known are loud
Have you ever had a mouse in the room with you?
It grinds and crunches and leaps around the place
It’s dense furry body scrabbles on floorboards
Mice are noisy
So are Kate’s
But I can’t be late for the sun
I have this time to write and muse
Before the day is begun
And I guard it like gold
Fill it and let it fill me in return
It’s not the same restful quality of sleep
But the peace of untangling thoughts
Hearing myself talk
Understanding
To step outside of the subconscious ride that dreams provide
While the traces of that other world are still close by
The people who visit me there
The places I go
I don’t know
They only ask more questions
I prefer my own
So here I am
Sipping my loud coffee
I wonder if I’m odd?
And then don’t let the thought bother me
Of course I am
By age 50ish most humans are grown enough to be different and strange
Or else they have lost their minds
turned a basic shade of beige
Sawn off their corners
To fit with the rest
I, on the other hand
am a puzzle of my own
And I like my own company
The very best
*other people give us the opportunity to look in mirrors. Header photo – a track that leads to the right of where I normally walk in the mornings.
I do go down that way sometimes but it is very overgrown at the moment. It reminded me of routines and paths that we take and how we automatically choose the usual clear cut way most of the time, rather than the unknown or overgrown.
Everything is a metaphor.
Our whole lives are a metaphor.
But for what?
I love this, it’s so true.
Thanks Martha 😊
Kate such an area and I love your words. Anita
Thankyou Anita, that’s kind of you to say.
this was a pleASant surprise: a new poem by Kate. It held me all the way through for I too have a guest in the house for a week ; it’s a little disruptive and I get grumpy if I can’t get to my creative, quiet time. The mice section appealed to me. I thought you conjured it well. It was the last section where you wondered about your ‘oddness’ that really lifted the poem; yes, I think all creatives are a little odd, both in their appearance and their work— that is what makes us distinctive and alluring 🙂
Thanks John, for that very thorough reading and feedback, I enjoyed your thoughts. I do tend to ramble sometimes so quite understand those who don’t make it through to the end.
…. but I did it this time, Kate; I did it this time 🙂
a wonderful poem and musings Kat e and so relatable. I think we are a special breed and thank god we’re not mice.. lol. worse.. rats.. haha🙀💗
Hahaha, thanks Cindy 💕🌼
😂💓 Pleasure🙌🏽
Wonderful! Strange how I can see myself in a “morning person”! Sometimes, I will walk out at night when Jeff’s asleep, to the edge of the back yard where it meets the woods just to hear the frogsong. Life is indeed metaphor. For what, you ask. Perhaps metaphor is life. That is to say art is what we live for, the essence of life. I recently learned about “trench art,” pieces created by soldiers in the worst of war conditions. I’ve also been fascinated by post-earthquake Haitian art. You often hear people say that art is a luxury that humans can achieve only after our basic survival needs are met. I think the history of art (visual and otherwise) defies this notion, and the existence of “trench art” proves it wrong. Art is a basic human need, a way of connecting to something deep within us, something without which we are mere shells. Inspiring post! Thanks!