All posts by pezoldo

The Tidal Zone

A memory of my last night standing in the salty spray of the Pacific before leaving for six months.

waves become kisses lipping at
the smooth skin of the sand gentle
at first rougher then rougher
until the surface breaks water
crests over the spray
knocks pebbles loose like little
teeth the tidal zone breaks open
rocks become breakers for the
waves Continue reading The Tidal Zone

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[You’ll Never Hear Me Say It]

This is shaping up to be a week of strange juxtapositions. I had this poem ready to go Monday evening, but somehow couldn’t put the finishing touches on it until today. Boredom and distraction strike all too quickly, and yet, there hardly seems enough time in each day to get some work done…. Anyways, all this dreary stuff to say that last weekend was a delight, and so, for once, I’ve got a joyful poem for you.

You’ll never hear me say it, but I’m
glad.

part of me wonders:
what did I miss?
those few days spent together
turned to ten years spent apart
and yet, we are richer for it

Somehow our friendship survived
silence.

the death of a parent
the deconstruction of our families
the gentle growth of new life
friendships, bridges built
on a foundation once crumbling

You’ll never hear me say it, but I Continue reading [You’ll Never Hear Me Say It]

An Austro-Canadian in Italy

Two weeks ago I had the amazing opportunity to join a group of Austrian blacksmiths on their journey to the world blacksmithing championship in Stia, Italy. This poem is a sort of culmination of the various interesting experiences I had there – from hole-in-the-floor bathrooms, to five-course meals, they sure had it all.

We drive into a game of Minecraft
pass anti-terrorist stations without a bother
(The bar lifts, no need for passports)
drive on, drive on through a European Philippines

Public enemy: public bathrooms
without seats, without that northern need to pay
no fifty-cent charge, no landlocked terrain
Order pasta without a word of Italian
like a multi-cultural sage stricken mute

Up, up, up the mountains
passing Lego cars, tiny as the collective imagination
The buildings all brick; the rock all sedimentary
Layers upon layers follow us into no-man’s-land

Dinner that day is traditional
Serve me once, shame on you
Serve me twice, shame on me
Serve me three times –
where did all these courses come from?
Serve me five times, we’re in Italy

Back and forth like the ‘scape
Hammers ring and people mime like pros
Before we know it the bus is loaded
beers before midday, Austrian cheers
prayers sung at mealtime, prost
the works

We drive back out of that Minecraft game
into the familiar expanse of Terraria

M.
Sept 1-16/17

20 Feet/5300 Miles

Ascent: to rise and see your cares below
laid out like buds in blossom growing tall
no longer trapped by ice, yet blooming slow
those cares turn warm in summer, lost in fall

To Fall: descending from that highest perch
to muddling ground, where peaceful stories lie
they bask in fading sunlight, sometimes search
for answers to the seasons fading by

These Stories: in a word, more than a word
I tell them, though their purpose fades so soon
they clamor with the seasons to be heard
to rise and fall in cycles, wilt and bloom

so summer shrinks and fall begins to swell
our stories change; but do we change as well?

M.
Jun 29/17

ISTJs and Other (non)Sense Factories

ISTJs can be recognized by the simple fact that they will be infinitely better at storing facts than you, while remaining unable to process them into larger truths. While this turns them into an impressive storehouse of knowledge (especially dates and chemical equations, which tend to stick to the ISTJ like Elmer’s Glue Papier-mâché), don’t rely on the ISTJ to strike out creatively. (Then again, don’t rely on anyone, except the occasional INT. And maybe an ISFJ. Or perhaps an INF…. On second thought, fine, rely on a few people. Just remember: The fewer humans you require to function at full capacity, the better. More people will lower your capacity, not increase it.)

Anyways, back to ISTJs. Continue reading ISTJs and Other (non)Sense Factories