(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.