Read Online Alone and Not Alone by Ron Padgett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ron Padgett
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fall away
among other smudges that are falling away
smudges and puffs falling away
It Takes Two
My replacement in the universe
is the little tyke whoâll soon arrive
and let me be superfluous if
and when I feel like being so.
I donât really mean that.
Itâs just the openness
of what will or might be,
when what matters most
is the right now of now,
which,
when I draw back and look reveals
an old fool in the foggy bliss
of whatever this morning is.
Straighten up, old thing!
You arenât
that
old and he or she
will reach right up and grasp
some years and break them off
your psycheâwhat is it? like stardust?
glittering on those tiny tiny fingers.
The First Time
The first time Marcello went outside
the sun and moon were at his side
(his happy mom and happy dad)
(also the happiness known as granddad).
The first time Marcello breathed the outside air
he seemed to like it there.
The first time he got in a car
it zoomed him fast and far
(for such a little guy)
to Brooklyn: âHi,
Brooklyn!â he didnât shout:
his words were too little to get out.
But clearly in his sleeping face
he felt comfy in the human race.
Circles
Marcello sees
the sun is yellow.
But then at night
itâs white.
No, thatâs the moon
or a white balloon
above his bedâ
wait, itâs his head!
Colored circles rise and fall.
Marcello seems to like them all.
Grandpa Brushed His Teeth
This morning Grandpa brushed his teeth
so hard it knocked Marcello down
but he got back up to watch
Grandpa brush those teeth
Ah Grandpa brushing up and down
with joy he sang almost Glug glug!
The toothpaste tasted excellent
and the brush it zigged and zagged
Itâs a good thing he has teeth to brush
and that he likes the brushing of them
The only missing ones are Wisdom
and Marcello does not need them
And Grandpa doesnât either
Good-bye to Wisdom teeth and Wisdom
Buon giorno
to Marcello
Little toothbrush fellow
Coffee Man
She might be hearing the burbling song of the bird outside, but it is impossible to tell, since she has rolled over and I think gone back to sleep. If I were to say quietly, âGood morning, dear, here is your coffee,â she would open her eyes and manage a groggy âThank you.â But when she realizes that I am standing there without coffee, I would forget which tense Iâm waiting to lift from the jar with the red lid in the kitchen.
Where Is My Head?
It makes you nervous to think not about death
but about dying and being dead yourself
but when you donât think about it
it doesnât exist,
at least in your universe.
And since thatâs the universe you happen to be in
you want to stay there:
you have to fix the world
and then save it,
you have to do that one thing
you canât remember what it is
but you know itâs there somewhere
like the death you forgot for a moment.
I should have spent my life
meditating so deeply that the thought of death
would be relaxing like a breeze or a feather
but instead I have spent it promising myself
that someday I would go to that special place
in my psyche where the spirit enters and leaves
and make my peace with the beast I call myself.
I hate myself for dying, how
could I have done this!
But all I did was nothing
other than believe that I was actually important!
Everything my mother did proved it.
But when she died she just glided awayâ
she didnât mind at all.
She didnât think she was important
and she had a farmgirlâs view of dying:
chickens do it all the time,
they run around the yard with blood
gushing from where their heads used to be.
I wish I could do that!
In Paris the heads that dropped into the basket
âwere they still thinking about the executioner?
Today I am my own executioner.
Survivor Guilt
Itâs very easy to get.
Just keep living and youâll find yourself
getting more and more of
among other smudges that are falling away
smudges and puffs falling away
It Takes Two
My replacement in the universe
is the little tyke whoâll soon arrive
and let me be superfluous if
and when I feel like being so.
I donât really mean that.
Itâs just the openness
of what will or might be,
when what matters most
is the right now of now,
which,
when I draw back and look reveals
an old fool in the foggy bliss
of whatever this morning is.
Straighten up, old thing!
You arenât
that
old and he or she
will reach right up and grasp
some years and break them off
your psycheâwhat is it? like stardust?
glittering on those tiny tiny fingers.
The First Time
The first time Marcello went outside
the sun and moon were at his side
(his happy mom and happy dad)
(also the happiness known as granddad).
The first time Marcello breathed the outside air
he seemed to like it there.
The first time he got in a car
it zoomed him fast and far
(for such a little guy)
to Brooklyn: âHi,
Brooklyn!â he didnât shout:
his words were too little to get out.
But clearly in his sleeping face
he felt comfy in the human race.
Circles
Marcello sees
the sun is yellow.
But then at night
itâs white.
No, thatâs the moon
or a white balloon
above his bedâ
wait, itâs his head!
Colored circles rise and fall.
Marcello seems to like them all.
Grandpa Brushed His Teeth
This morning Grandpa brushed his teeth
so hard it knocked Marcello down
but he got back up to watch
Grandpa brush those teeth
Ah Grandpa brushing up and down
with joy he sang almost Glug glug!
The toothpaste tasted excellent
and the brush it zigged and zagged
Itâs a good thing he has teeth to brush
and that he likes the brushing of them
The only missing ones are Wisdom
and Marcello does not need them
And Grandpa doesnât either
Good-bye to Wisdom teeth and Wisdom
Buon giorno
to Marcello
Little toothbrush fellow
Coffee Man
She might be hearing the burbling song of the bird outside, but it is impossible to tell, since she has rolled over and I think gone back to sleep. If I were to say quietly, âGood morning, dear, here is your coffee,â she would open her eyes and manage a groggy âThank you.â But when she realizes that I am standing there without coffee, I would forget which tense Iâm waiting to lift from the jar with the red lid in the kitchen.
Where Is My Head?
It makes you nervous to think not about death
but about dying and being dead yourself
but when you donât think about it
it doesnât exist,
at least in your universe.
And since thatâs the universe you happen to be in
you want to stay there:
you have to fix the world
and then save it,
you have to do that one thing
you canât remember what it is
but you know itâs there somewhere
like the death you forgot for a moment.
I should have spent my life
meditating so deeply that the thought of death
would be relaxing like a breeze or a feather
but instead I have spent it promising myself
that someday I would go to that special place
in my psyche where the spirit enters and leaves
and make my peace with the beast I call myself.
I hate myself for dying, how
could I have done this!
But all I did was nothing
other than believe that I was actually important!
Everything my mother did proved it.
But when she died she just glided awayâ
she didnât mind at all.
She didnât think she was important
and she had a farmgirlâs view of dying:
chickens do it all the time,
they run around the yard with blood
gushing from where their heads used to be.
I wish I could do that!
In Paris the heads that dropped into the basket
âwere they still thinking about the executioner?
Today I am my own executioner.
Survivor Guilt
Itâs very easy to get.
Just keep living and youâll find yourself
getting more and more of
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