Proverb 2402

Late to bed, sanely to rise,

makes one

healthier, wealthier, and wise.  

 

 

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2024 :: Proverb 2402 

 

citation:

https://www.theguardian.com/science/article/2024/jul/11/night-owls-cognitive-function-superior-to-early-risers-study-suggests

 

Misfit

 

It is not the getting older (which is a true gift)
it is the becoming a misfit.
I no longer fit with you
because I lack the machine to join you on What's App.
And that is my fault.
I try to join you on Instagram,
but I and my screen are misfits.
We are of the horizontal race
but the drinking fountain has a new sign: “verticals only.”
That is my fault.

Though innocent,
I have long been accused
(in a gentle loving way)
by friends and loved ones
of choosing and enjoying my missed fits.
Perhaps it was my charm--
almost never a problem nor a fault.
Now, it is my fault that I must send you an email rather than a text.

Until I have the machine that allows me to fit
I will add Instagram to the things I forgo.
I will continue to be myself,
enjoy knowing myself as a misfit,
and love you for knowing:
the charm in it is all my fault. 

 Misfit, 9/24/23

Bob Komives

 

 Fort Collins © 2023 :: Misfit :: 2301

 

Humid Morning on Arid Land

Is this that now hovers

the awaited rain
that will soon descend
to draw our thirst
before refreshment comes to ground?

Or is this no more than past rain that rises
and lingers a while to taunt our thirst
before our fertility departs? 

Humid Morning on Arid Land

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2020 :: Humid Morning On Arid Land :: ,8004

11:59

Know that fourteen lines from a forgotten little day early in Covid's Time wish to grow (with regret and gratitude) toward a thousand days and hundreds of lines among which you still find a line and more about you.

11:59PM, April twenty-fifth, 2020 

From playing bridge with you on the web, 
to reading the Life of Mahatma Gandhi with you 
     and watching a fun movie,
to our conversation over sprouting clover, 
to our socially distanced beverage-and-snack around the patio, 
to my shouts and your responses across the street, 

to our digital exchanges, 

to our greetings and smiles as you passed by, 
I had a great day today.
Please

(if you can identify)
hug yourself 
and accept this humble "thank you." 

11:59

Bob Komives

::  Fort Collins © 2020  ::  11:59  ::  2003  ::

When I Need a Visitor

When I need a visitor:

     By day,

     by season,

     with no qualm

     no hesitation,

     with license from all authority,

sun comes into my home

to play a play that gives me joy.

      

When I Need a Visitor

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2020  :: When I Need a Visitor  ::  2001

Yes, Yes I Was

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2017 :: 1708

Out My Backdoor

You'll hear me say

it takes three days

out my back door

to the middle of the wild,

And so I did,
as he cleared my way to his grinding wheel.

Out My Backdoor

Bob Komives

::

You'll find that among your new neighbors
we borrow and lend in a neighborly way.
No payment offered and none accepted,
yet, you might say,
one is always expected.
The price to borrow one thing
is to remember to ask for two.
We lend a tool freely
where we can send along our wisdom.
Your question may be short or long,
as fits the subject,
but the answer should never be so short
as to end before you turn to leave.
Thus, our advice will often run full limit—
just twice what the fetching and lending need take.
After my first winter, and half a summer,
this custom had already served me well.
Being the youngest and the newest,
I lacked tools and had need for everyday advice.

::

A few houses over,
the pruning saw hung near his head
as I walked through the workshop door.
“How long does it take
“to get into the back country from here?”
He said nothing
until he had lowered the saw and put it into my hand.

Well, if you want to hear how I figure it,

(I paused near the door to listen.)

it takes me no more than an hour and a half; 

only the canyon sits in my way.

::

Across the alley,
she walked with me to her shed
to fetch the garden fork.
“How long does it take
“to get into the back country from here?”
She may have wished I had asked about her tomatoes.
We inspected them going and halfway back.

'depends on how you see it.

But I suppose I'd say, it takes me three hours 

out my back door and into the wilderness—

to close the door, 

drive up the canyon,

put on my pack,

and trek a few miles up the trail.

She reconfirmed as I latched the gate.

Yes, I guess it's three hours that join this place, 

my chosen life,

with my mountain escape of choice.

::

I needed only to go next door
to sharpen my mower blade.
“How long does it take
“to get into the back country from here?”
He had just begun to change the spark plugs
in his pickup on the far side of the garage.

You'll hear me say it takes three days 

out my back door to the middle of the wild,

And so I did,
as he cleared my way to his grinding wheel.
With several minutes of grinding ahead of me
he could afford to confuse me in the beginning.
Of course, I hinted that among his neighbors
an hour and a half, or perhaps three hours,
were thought to be enough.

Those are honest folks,

but, you might say,

I speak in the sense of senses.

Now, my sense of smell and my sense of taste,

they could agree with those lower estimates.

One breath of mountain air 

inhaled deeply through my nose

places me right back in the wilderness.

There, any food, lightly carried,

tastes as good as I care to expect.

But, ear, eye, and touch do not fit in so quickly.

I hear beauty; 

I see it; 

I touch it—

even before I exhale that first mountain breath.

Yet those senses flit about,

not always knowing new from old,

nor together from apart.

They  keep referring back here to this life—

enjoying so much the difference 

that you might say,

they miss out on much of the difference.

Then, some moment 

(expected but briefly unexpected)

around a trail bend on my third day out,

I make it all the way back 

to the middle of the wild—

all of me,

five senses,

together in one place.

While he got lost in thought
I finished up my grinding
and put the clutter back where it had lain.
Then I sent back a nod of understanding
as I took away his final words.

Now, before you reject my estimate,

let me tell you, it is not all bad.

On that last day,

I put on my pack 

and walk down out of the back country,

leaving that back door wide open.

Then I drive on down the canyon 

knowing that for at least three more days 

parts of me will stay up there

in the middle of the wild.

::

So, welcome to our neighborhood.
That yard sure has needed care.
Ah, there's that damned long-handled spade!
I'm sorry for the delay.
'haven't used it since last fall.
You can see it is still quite sharp.
It will always be here when you need it.
And, before you leave,
since you asked my advice,
I'd say you should take that hoe of yours next door.
It could use a little sharpening
to tame those weeds in the alley.
I see him there in his garage tuning up his van.
He came back down just yesterday.
Go on over,
but take care in what you ask.
He may still lack a few of his senses.

Fort Collins (c) 1994 :: Our My Backdoor:: ,9413

Benches of Hercegkút

           Yes, these are pretty flowers.

Does not every village have such flowers?
We have two hundred simple houses,
two hundred root cellars,
three hundred wine cellars,
and two simple churches;
but no castle,
no museum.
Everyone will wonder why you wandered by.

           
           

           Yes, this is my bench.
Does not every village have such benches?
We sit in front of our houses,
in front of our fences,
facing out,
along the walk,
looking over our flowers to the street,
looking after each other,
watching for you.
Can there be village without benches?
Why have flowers but no bench to sit on?
Why have neighbors but no benches for them to
      wander by?

           Yes, I sit here when my work is done.
Should not everyone have such a bench?
I sit here to rest,
speak to my neighbors,
enjoy my flowers and today's best story.
I speak here from my wisdom,
from my prejudice.
I sat here with each of my babies on display for
      all to see.
I teach each grandchild to sit here,
say hello,
and kiss an elder's hand.
I watch,
and I remember to tell my neighbors who has
      come by while they were hard at work.
I return your smile,
answer your greeting,
and wonder why you would have no bench yet
      have interest in mine.
Here, fifty neighbors pass on bicycle and foot
while the others stand hard by their work or sit
      upon benches to look.
They will wonder.
They will wonder until I tell them why you wandered by.

Benches of Hercegkút

Bob Komives

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1997 :: Benches :: ,9716    

Evening Begins

downtown, down stairs
table alone
excellent jazz
mellow, crisp, near
and, at my reach
mellow, crisp beer
Belgian grand cru
Rodenbach sour
sipped to enjoy
( proper cru glass )
half of half gone
evening begins
evening begun

Evening Begins

Bob Komives

                          Fort Collins (c) 2016 :: Evening Begins :: 1606

Luggage

Luggage takes what I want to lug
to where I want to lug it.
Baggage is much the same,
except it bags a heavier burden
that may not be all mine.
I like my luggage to be one, small piece,
to feel light after a three-mile walk.
I like my luggage when it holds what I need,
nothing more
except this thread
and that pill
I may need
next stop.
If my luggage is each time better packed,
I travel more in ease
and out of habit.
If it is each time lighter,
I seek more among strangers
and find less to be strange.
If it still returns a bit heavier than when I went,
it still holds a bit
of what I found
of what I seek
not to leave behind.
The rest, of course, is dirty laundry.

Luggage

 Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1998 ::  ,9803

Once Mining Town

We visited a friend
who owns the once depot
up Left Hand Canyon
in the once mining town
below Pawnee Peak
further from Quaint
closer to Ghost Town
where dreams that have surfaced
again and again
were once realized for some
in gold and silver
lead and commerce
and now for some
realized in a history
reborn in the sixties
with the flower children
who came to mine the dreams
which may be more lasting
and may be more elusive
than have been the minerals
upon which they once looked
to a certain idyllic future
and now to the maybe idyllic past
of those who are still proud
to have the best water
and the fewest flush toilets
most abandoned vehicles
fewest paved streets
most divisive arguments
most cooperative fire department
and coziest self-serve library
now superficially judged
by two tourists on bicycles
visiting a friend
who owns the once depot
up Left Hand Canyon
in the once mining town
below Pawnee Peak
further from Quaint
closer to Ghost Town
where dreams have surfaced 
again and again.

Once Mining Town

 Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2004 ::  ,9421

Pub

Yes, tonight too, he will walk a mile to downtown—
round a table with the others about nine.
“ 'must be Tuesday, right on schedule! ”, says the waitress.
    It seems that their habit
    has gone somewhat noticed within the pub.
An important unimportant special topic
gets a chewing midst the drinking of the ale.
An agreement is as likely as the obverse—
    only seldom guilty
    of being too certain in what they know.
If this leaves you confused you belong there.
You'll find mustard to sharpen the sage.
Hurry and go this very weeknight.
Pick up your fellows as you pass middle age.

Pub

Bob Komives

Yes, tonight too, he has walked a mile to downtown—
one or two rounds, two or three friends make a night.
“ 'see you next week, right on schedule! ”, says the waitress.
    He accepts a drop off
    either in the Packard or in the Dodge.
On important unimportant special topics,
one last chewing in the dim light of the street.
Final insight: (since the ale was somnifacient)
    If they are to finish,
    they will have to gather again next week.
If this leaves you confused you belong there.
You'll find mustard to sharpen the sage.
Hurry and go this very weeknight.
Pick up your fellows as you pass middle age.

Fort Collins © 1994 :: Pub  :: 9402

If Twenty-Miles-Per-Hour Caused Cancer

If twenty-miles-per-hour and faster
were proven risk for cancer,
speed would be disease.
We would attend seminars on slowing down,
preach against moving too fast,
and mourn too-many of our too-speedy loved ones.

If Twenty-Miles-Per-Hour Caused Cancer

Bob Komives

Speed limits would be posted in journals
but unnecessary along our roads.
Sixty-one would be minimum legal age for sprinting.
Health food stores would sell slowing vegetables
harvested by nearby, slow farmers,
and, as well,
they would sell speeding herbs
believed, in certain cults, to grant immunity. 

If twenty-miles-per-hour caused cancer
the word “automobile” would be old-fashion,
a quaint mistake of inventive evolution
on the road to the all-weather Sport-Utility Chair.
the trendy, Hand-Made, Low-Gear Bicycle,
and, of course, the Humphrey:
     Hybrid Horse-Horseless buggy
     fueled half-time by stew of its own manure.

Fort Collins © 2007 :: If If Twenty-Miles-Per-Hour Caused Cancer :: 0711

Homestyle

Quiet, patterned home,

our homestyle.

Noisy, frenetic, unpredicted home,

our homestyle.

Homestyle

Bob Komives

Worth every return--

both styles.

Home of quiet patterns

is timeless,

liveable day-by-moment;

each day down-plays its import;

each moment important in its

lack of momentary,

taste of eternity,

slow-fill of energy.

Unpredictable, frenetic, noisy home

makes memories;

gifts surprises

to expect but not anticipate;

drains energy while energizing;

crazy, yes,

but so it is.

Welcome to my home;

I hope we do not bore you in our calm.

Welcome to my home;

I hope we do not ignore you in our frenzy.

If our home is today a bother,

return next week for the other.

"Homestyle,"

spoken yesterday: fast-and-choppy.

"Homestyle,"

whisper it today: softly, smoothly.

Please join us,

make yourself at home;

let our style embrace your own style--

homestyle.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2011 :: Homestyle :: 1104

Stools

                    

    on                                                                             
    stools                                                                             
    along                                                                             
    bar                                                                             
    sit                                                                             
    drinker                                                                             
    stranger                                                                             
    lover                                                                             
    friend                                                                             
    strung                                                                             
    together                                                                             
    strung                                                                             
    together                                                                             
    together                                                                             
    strung                                                                             
    end                                                                             
    to                                                                             
    end                                                                             

Stools

Bob Komives

                             

Fort Collins © 2003 :: Stools :: 0306