Do Not Think Me a Pundit

 This morning,

a reorter appeared at my door

to ask my opinion of election to be.

"Don't think me a pundit," said I.

"Don't think me a spider," said she.

I closed the door--

watched and waited.

Until, strand by strand,

she consumed her silk.

Later, I opened the door

to wonder if I saw what I heard

or heard what I saw.

No trace of spider,

no proof of web.

 

 

 

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2024 :: Do Not Think Me A Pundit :: 2401

All, in Pursuit of Happiness

 

 

Perhaps and per sometimes,

above their glass ceiling

women see white men

walking and talking and keeping them down.

Perhaps and per sometimes,

above their wire ceiling

men see a man or a woman

walking and talking and keeping them down.

Perhaps and per sometimes,

we are the schoolteacher,

urban planner,

road paver,

social worker,

line splicer,

and nurse.

Perhaps and per sometimes,

we see men or we see women

walking and talking and keeping us down.

Perhaps and per sometimes,

we hear them praiseful and thankful

for having us around.

Above our ceilings of wire and glass

they are few.

Below, we are many.

We are their objects of both envy and disdain.

Perhaps and per sometimes,

we are grandparented or grandchilded

or will someday be great-grandchilded

by those shadows above wire and glass.

Perhaps and per sometimes,

they have spoken or will someday speak of us fondly

for doing this life well.

We deserve to be celebrated,

not to be divided,

nor have it decided that parts of us 

fit today's category of whom to deride.

At our story among multi-stories

we have a name, a gender, perception of race, 

and ladder of personal history.

And, yes,

we may notice those at the story above--

looking down through their glass and wire floor.

We may notice those at the story below--

looking up through their glass and wire ceiling.

Both may see our work and our talent.

One or both may not. 

Perhaps and per sometimes,

they see us aspire to climb or descend,

or stay where we are--

all in pursuit of happiness.

All, in pursuit of happiness.

 

 

All, in Pursuit of Happiness

Bob Komives

 

 

 

 

Fort Collins © 2021 :: All, in Pursuit of Happiness  :: 2104

 

 .....

 

graphic: Arise  ©  2021

 

Seams of Ambivalence

Ambivalence has seams I but faintly see.
Do they
(as they seem today)
let exiled excitement seep in?

Or the other way.

Do I watch 
while precious, small store
seeps, seeps away?

Seams of Ambivalence
Bob Komives

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2018 ::  1801

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

Floor 3 and Floor 4

Outside:
beautiful, sunny day
to navigate capricious tracks
in ice-remnant streets.

Inside:
to Floor 3 and Floor 4 
where 
long-close friends lie infirm.

Floor 3 and Floor 4
where 
friends attend friends.
One spouse ignores pains in her back.
The other, his birthday.

Floor 3 and Floor 4

Bob Komives

Smiles, 
words, 
sincerity of brevity.

Floor 3, Floor 4, Floor 1.
Outside to bicycle and more sun.
Capricious track.
Ice-remnant street.
Good fortune's way
to
comfort,
comfort,
home. 

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2016 :: Floor 3 and Floor 4 :: 1601

The Letherhome Bridge

Deborah went away today.
We wished her well,
as we did before,
and the befores before that.
Deborah laughed,
said she will not be back.
We try to believe her now,
as we tried before,
and had tried before that.

 

The Letherhome Bridge

Bob Komives

Hernan Cortes tries to tell her
to burn her bridges,
burn them behind her,
as he had burned his ships
so he could not go back to Cuba or Spain
until he conquered Mexico.
But speaking as one of her bridges,
or perhaps the hull of her ship,
I have no desire to burn.
Why should I suffer
just so Deborah can conquer Mexico?
In truth,
she would rather conquer the Extremadura,
back in Spain,
a counter conquest of Cortes,
an adventure that I support,
as I supported her adventure before,
and each adventure before that.
How would my burning further her venture?
Even if she conquers Extremadura,
or Lisbon,
or Brattleboro,
she will want to come back to brag about it.
She will  need a bridge
--even for a short visit.
So, I propose a compromise.
Hernan,
will you get out of her psyche
if I let some weeds grow up,
some bushes to hide me from a distance,
some erosion to my approach?
Let's agree that these are worth a try
-- alternatives to my burning.
They will discourage her return
until she is rich and famous
or in desperate need of a warm bowl of soup.
When the time comes,
I can paint up and fix up,
clear the landscape
so she can see her way back.
For my effort,
I might earn a new plaque.
Or, I might polish up the old one
as I polished it before,
having earned it before that.
With luck,
the old words will still read well:
.......Here sank the ship that let me away.
.......Here rose the bridge that let me back.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2000 :: Letherhome Bridge :: 0003

Where Universe Divides In Two

Where Universe Divides in Two

Bob Komives

::

We can, I suppose,
think of a chemical reaction
at the nucleus of a tiny amoeba
as but one reaction
in
a
chain
that
extends
from
this
amoebic nucleus
to the farthest reach of the biosphere.

We should rather, I propose,
notice this amoeba has a surface,
its working edge,
where universe divides in two;
where biosphere divides into
what-is-this-amoeba
......................... and .........................
what-this-amoeba-is-not

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1998
Where Universe Divides In Two :: ,9806

Hole or Castle

To hide
or to defend yourself from the marauding horde,
will you build a high-fortress-castle,
or will you dig a low-hole?

Hole or Castle

Bob Komives

Castle seems more pleasant
--more generous with status.
(Compare castled duke with lowly caveman)
Castle gives an image of protection.
(impregnable to all but the pregnator)

Hole, perhaps, is less the target.
The proud marauder,
looking up,
may miss your hiding place,
or see no glory in it,
or show you mercy if you point to a castle.

As for me:
in peace, I still love to play in castles;
in crisis, I may have to seek a hole;
but don't ask me to build or dig.
Let me, instead, wander the land
learning paths that cross frontiers.
For, with the luck of rumor or warning,
I will prefer to walk away.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1997 :: Hole of Castle :: ,9721


Click to see as part of one of several graphic and poetry triptychs.

Those That Never Meet

Born so gifted but ill-fated
into tropic heat,
best genetic skater
ever born for ice,
he went buried in Honduras
into tropic earth,
humbled by the ice sheet
he had never touched.

Those That Never Meet

Bob Komives

Born so gifted and well-fated
onto dry-grass plain,
there in restless wonder,
always almost home,
we went southward from north winter
into tropic damp,
leaving and befriending
those that never meet.

 Fort Collins © 1997 :: Those That Never Meet :: ,9702

The Bounders

I ask myself,
do ethnic groups create ethnic conflict?
Or does the guilt fall on the bounders?
A bounder drew and redrew a line,
leaving non-magyar within,
leaving Magyar without
in the lands of other proud peoples.
As easily as one line makes a majority
it as readily makes a minority.
Boundary gives protected space to the fearful,
powerful space to the oppressor,
vulnerable space to the oppressed.
Boundary begs one group to accept as equals
those who are different,
and begs the different ones to be less different
among those who are more than equal.
I thought this among the traces of so many people
in the streets and museums of Hungary.

The Bounders

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2007 :: The Bounders :: ,0x36