(I know it’s not a poem but it sort of looks like one, doesn’t it?)
A Transitional Object
is a beloved and reassuring
item that stands in for Mom
when she is out of sight.
A late bloomer, I still crave
nurturance, but I get comfort
now from books.
The books I most like are those
that make me scratch my head
and wonder why and how and who,
Like reports of the flying monk
who flew around the church wearing
no underpants and became a saint.
Graves, Yeats, Mann and Leibnitz
believed in the monk, as he is
described in Wilson’s The Occult.
In An Experiment with Time, Dunne
suggests we dream of both future and
past events equally.
Hillman’s Dreams and the Underworld
scared me out of my Jungian analysis
with hints of archetypes come to life.
Wilhelm Reich knew that his patient
had an abortion when she reported a
dream of a book standing upside down.
Strangers to Ourselves, The Whisperings
Within, and Sam Harris’ Free Will all
hotwire my curiosity.
Wilson’s Consilience stirs my mind
and my heart, even though the friend
of a friend says he’s a misogynist.
Intellectuals alerted me to the fact that
Rousseau placed his five newborns in
baskets and left them, unnamed.
Discovery of the Unconscious tells of
a fox who possessed a sick woman and
refused to leave without a fine meal.
The journals we pen ourselves of
dreams and doodles and wonderings
devour loneliness and stir the pot.
I save pure escape reading until bed
time, when I reward myself for making
it through another day, with mysteries.
Did the header say something about
dishes? I prefer reading, writing
and paper plates.