Ode to Bollard

Oh, Bollards; Oh, Bollards.
Pillars of my community.
Through old-town alley and downtown street,
past art and fun,
in winter cold and summer heat,
you guide me,
protect me.
For my comings out and my goings in
you keep me out of harms way.
Ode to Bollard
Bob Komives 
Yet,
do I notice?
do I say?
“Thank you, Bollard,”
or even:
“Bollard, good day!”
No, Bollard; No, Bollards.
At least,
not until this morning
when you helped me walk 
to museum (that has genius on display),
to old town's square, 
then
by that place of playful children.
You kept me from 
traffic's hazards,
ugly's dumpsters,
then guided me on 
to hardware store for errand of the day.

Oh, Bollards; Oh Bollards.
Where buildings loom tall and cubical,
(where straight streets abound)
you too stand straight, 
but
short,
humble,
round.

Oh, Bollard; Oh, Bollards.
While you are too noticed and familiar 
to
Canis 
lupus 
familiaris,
you are visibly invisible,
unfamiliar,
ignored,
alien
to
Homo
sapiens 
sapiens.

Oh, Bollards; My Bollards.
Pillars of my protection.
Please take notice of my notice;
please accept my affection.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2015 :: Ode To Bollard  :: 1504

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    

I Want Egy Száraz Vörös Hosszúlépés

I Want Egy Száraz Vörös Hosszúlépés

Bob Komives






Balázs told me
Hungarians almost always drink soda with wine. 
I now know how to order it.
The drink is such common knowledge 
it does not appear on a menu:

Egy nagy fehér (or vörös) fröccs 
2 portions of white (or red) wine with one of soda in a large glass

Egy kis (vörös) fröccs 
1 portion of (red) wine & one of soda 
in a small glass

Egy (fehér) hosszúlépés (a long step)
1 portion of (white) wine with two of soda 
in a large glass

Later I discovered
I need to specify
whether the wine is to be 
dry (száraz) or sweet (édes). 

Egy Száraz Vörös Hosszúlépést Kérek.



























poem by Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1993 :: I Want Egy Száraz Vörös Hosszúlépés :: ,0x30

Object in Love Coherent

Perhaps you too have noticed:

How

mundane sight becomes inspired image
and speaks to a moment or a forever.

"Object in Love Coherent"
Bob Komives 

How
(in this rather ordinary example)
a wedge
(struck by my earnest-but-ignorant hammer)
sits partway driven into heart of elm
and there reveals
strong-but-elegant fiber,
(bonds long hidden)
that strive to cohere entire wood.

How 
a confounded-but-sensitive eye
can see in this revelation
beauty--
beauty enough to switch violence to reverence
(cause a pause)
(a setting aside)
a putting on display of 
                "Object in Love Coherent".

How
(once noticed)
such curious work of mind
(and art)
can warm us longer
than ever could mere firewood.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2015 :: Object in Love Coherent  :: 1503

Yes, Yes I Was

Yes, Yes I Was
Bob Komives

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2017 ::  1708

The Bicycle :: :: an ode to fun

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

          The bicycle is a kind machine.    
          It will take you up any road up any hill,
          if, indeed, your muscle will.

          Then coming down, with your muscle toned,
          your bicycle will do it all alone.

                Yes, it will--
                     while you sit still.

                                    Yes, it will.

The Bicycle
                                                                                    an ode to fun

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1994 :: The Bicycle  :: 9416

“Cordless”

Perhaps you, as I, are puzzled by the lack of clarity
in the much-used word, “cordless.”

If the word “cordless” means “without cord”
I drink from cordless beer mug,
eat cordless bananas,
write with cordless pencil.
Eve and Adam were cordless people.

"Cordless"

Bob Komives

If “cordless” means “once-upon-a-time-had-a-cord”
the rest of us are cordless people—
crazy people, if we speak of “cordless screwdrivers.”
For, I have owned dozens such tools,
but not one with a cord—
       except the day I attached a string to one
       for fear of losing yet another down the well.

If “cordless” means “empowered by battery”
I almost understand the term.
My wristwatch is cordless;
I can’t wind its spring.
And, though my camera has a wrist cord,
it too is made cordless
by double-double-A cells.
I now have several friends
       with somewhat cordless automobiles,
and one with a kind-but-cordless pacemakered heart—
But, as of yet, only robots are truly cordless people.

If, after all this puzzling,
you share my conclusion
that “cordless” means “meaningless”
we can only wish somehow to have enjoyed
       this cordless waste of our time.

 Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2007 :: "Cordless" :: 0709

Renovation

 

Renovation

Bob Komives

Hammer, pound, ten-penny nail.

 

Board

cut  

paint

pail.

Pipe

fitting

duct

tape.

Dust

plaster

undo

make.

Muscle

finesse

precision

eye.

Lift

pull

screw

pry.

Order

mess

disorder

clean.

Count

draw

stand

lean.

Nuts

bits

apron

gloves.

Callous

cuts

nudge

shove.

 

End today, tomorrow again.

 

Crosscut

rip

break

mend.

Strip wire

wind tight.

Black to black,

white to white.

 

Climb ladder, two-by-four.

 

Crowbar

pencil

chisel

door.

Hangers

drivers

inches

pound.

Levels

bevels

squares

round.

Eight-penny

too many

too short

too long.

 

Measure twice; remember wrong.

 

Joist

hoist

tacky

dry.

Smooth

moist

give-up

try.

To frame

and sheathe

to trim

and bend.

 

Length to width to end again.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2002 :: Renovation ::0215

co-posted on Komivesian Economics

Leaf On My Floor

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

You, leaf on my floor,
inside my house,
in through my door,
you, done with your work,
unwanted leaf,
get out!
out to my fire to burn!

Leaf On My Floor

Bob Komives

 

I, boot on your stem,
bend,
blood to my head,
stop,
kink to my back,
feel,
guilt to my heart,
smile,
time to rethink.
          
You, leaf on my floor,
found under foot,
blown through the door:
I know
generations of your ancestors
helped my tree
make energy from sun,
grow,
give out seeds
and give me beauty;
I know
this year's beauty included you.
     
I, months ago,
        said to a friend,
       look at the beauty in that tree leafing out.
Weeks ago,
       I said, look!
       look at the beauty in that tree turning red.
Hours ago,
       I said, look outside!
       as leaves fell beautifully in autumn wind.
Now,
       some class of hypocrite am I
       to treat a leaf on my floor
       as clod of waste to put out the door.
 
If this were a just world
I would be found guilty of leaf slaughter
or reckless abandonment,
imprisoned in a cell
where I could see no leaf,
no tree,
no change of season;
in a cell so clean
it could never know you
nor twig,
nor seed,
nor speck of fertile mud.
           
I, blood into my heart,
guilt out through my head,
pride straight up my back,
say, come now,
dear Leaf,
dear Retired Leaf.
I take you up from my floor,
back through my door,
to beneath our tree
and set you gently to rest.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2001 :: Leaf On My Floor :: 0107

I Like This Candle Wax

I like this candle wax
as it spills upon my finger,
burns for an instant,
and softly hardens from its edge.
. . .

I Like This Candle Wax

Bob Komives

I like its pearl, high center
that goes from thick to soft,
transparent to 'lucent,
apparent to vague.
. . .
I like its fringe
as it rises from my skin.
. . .
I like the whole, white wart
that dropped to silence
in our candle's shadow
as our finger pointed to the table.

Fort Collins © 1999 :: I Like This Candle Wax :: ,9715

Flooring

Our better floors will always know
(through shoes gone past)
where burdens fall heavy toward ground.


Our best floor will also show
(through shadows we cast)
where lighter sides surround.

Flooring

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1999 :: Flooring :: ,9913

Today, All Day

Today,
all day,
    he built stairs to the back door.

Today, All Day

Bob Komives

One hour
    to get ready,
    to find tools,
    lay them out,
    set up an outdoor workshop.
One hour
    (after he said he was done)
    to do the same in reverse.
In between,
    he built three stairs,
    and still this is half the story.
Yesterday,
    he ripped out what had been.
Tomorrow,
    he must deal with mess:
    old boards
    (attached and not)
    concrete block and brick
    that had underlain the old stairs,
    new scraps,
    and dust swept aside.
Later,
another day,
    he must deal with wall parts and ground parts
    newly exposed by his smaller replacement.
Now,
    he remembers why he put this project off
two months
and three years.
Now,
    as he sips a beer
    and tries to celebrate his fantasy of completion,
    he has a nagging feeling:
next week
    he will admit his new stairs need a railing.
    That project
    he would design with patience
    and build with care,
    such that
    (to his misfortune)
Winter
    might come down early
    and prevent him
    from rebuilding three decadent garden gates
    until, perhaps,
 next Spring.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1999 :: Today All Day :: ,9908

One Speck

One speck is enough to bother me
on glass I see as my mirror.
I fail, though,
..................to notice several others
..................when they sit on window-type glass.

One Speck

Bob Komives

Humility is the difference here,
(but mine is none of the issue).
Proud mirror
..................so vainly stops my focus
..................and won't let attention get past;
while window so humbly helps them go
to further focus their vision,
then helps them
..................back through where speck and glass were,
..................bringing truths more clear than their path.

Fort Collins © 1998 :: One Speck :: ,9802

I Stole The Chair

I stole the chair
that was their way to the stage.
Their stair.
My chair.

I Stole The Chair

Bob Komives

......early day
......late hour
......one west
......one east
......one to light
......one to shadow
......one, two
......together fused
......common spine
......common origin
......different past
......fore is aft
......left is right
......right might wrong
......early rise
......late carouse
......morning cult
......evening worship
......one, two
......too confused
......by the love and war of midday


How many different people must we be
before we let us all be different?


I stole the chair
that took them to the stage.
My chair?
Or their stair?
No-one cares
now that we have music.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1997 :: I Stole The Chair :: ,9717

Someone Put This Into Our Hammer.

To use our hammer of steel and wood
we must know to grow and manage arm and hand.
We must learn how and why to wield our hammer.
Yet, we need not know how
to make or shape steel,
to select wood
nor make a handle.
Someone put this into our hammer,
so we can use without knowing.

Someone Put This Into Our Hammer.

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1996 :: Someone Put This Into Our Hammer. :: ,9630

My Common Stove

featured in Good Day: the book of paintings and poetry

My stove knows how to burn its firewood,
how to respond
to me who knows so little of what it knows,
to me who does not know how to make a stove.

 

My Common Stove

Bob Komives

 

My stove knows how to send smoke up its chimney
and warmth into my room.
Its warmth can please,
or it can save a half-frozen life.
Such is its success and popularity
that I could sell tickets to my stove's proximity.
But, I do not.
I share its warm knowledge freely
according to communal tradition
among family, neighbors, and kindred strangers.
Those whom my stove knows to please,
those whom my stove knows to save
give back nothing in trade
—except,
to carry forward in common tradition
what we and a stove
must in-common know.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1996 :: My Common Stove :: ,9610