Each one of these poems about an unhinged mind has helped me in some way, a notch on my walking stick without which I could not have traveled far. Living Adjacent Madness If this is your address, then some effort should be spent upkeeping your fences. Paint your side- or stain it- as you will, because God only knows what maintenance is done over there. Allow a small gate, for short visits, no loitering. Keep the hinges oiled with an excellent self-locking mechanism for hasty retreats. Check that the posts are sound with solid footings. Mind there are no burrowing creatures -ghastly things- popping up on your lovely manicured lawn. What is this in the mail? “Rhyme and reason to the wind!”, purrs the invitation. Don’t be lured over there by those late night parties, all that seductive abandonment of order. Stay home, read a good book, one with chapters and headings, non of that streaming consciousness or bad grammar. Occasionally lift your gaze above the page and let it drift over the fence, but do not stare, do not let your eyes linger longer lest lust get the better of them.
Is there anything else, really? Well, I guess as your poem points out, you can always just let the fence go and join the party! I can’t help but wonder if our society hasn’t collectively let the fence go and joined the party!
Yep, it does seem largely so to me as well but then again it's also true that every generation feels that things are going to shit and nothing was like the good old days. I distinctly remember my grandpa saying that things really went to shit when the radio came in and my dad rolling his eyes.
The daughter of a fine carpenter. Your poem has caused me to reflect on my dad.
He was one of nine kids, so yes he valued his space. A man of few words but never wavered from having 'a man of your word' constitution. Animals were his soft spot. He loved them all and they knew it, as we did, too. Thank you for your words which have reminded me of him.
thanks Sandy. I am very fond of animals, a great deal more than people. Perhaps you'll read these other poems that are all carpentry oriented, ostensibly. I am also big on love poems, what I call smoochy poems.
Caution for self preservation, building that environment that keeps you safe or helps us hide? Complex and no excuses necessary for mixing the recipe that will turn into something worth offering to ourselves and others
Watching the chaos that was us in our children and grandchildren teaches much about ourselves doesn’t it
I agree, I agree, I agree. As I have said before, it is something special to be understood, thanks.
I am looking ahead to several poems where the speaker is utterly unreliable, maybe a buffoon or a complete jackass. I have no idea why but I know they're coming. My father, among many of his skills, was an interrogator. He had a way of asking the most oblique questions (to his sons) and when he was done you knew he had his answers but you had no idea why. It was unnerving as hell.
Ha! (and thanks) I'm gonna stick your words on the front jacket of my next book of poems, I'm serious. What else could a poet hope for (besides having the poems withstand the test of time)?
Thank you Lori. Can you read that response below? Wading around in chaos probably helped me sort things out in those early years as it probably did for all young people who were as clueless as I was.
When I was a young man, I gravitated towards the chaos and it had its merits, for that age, I guess but when I decided to try to accomplish something worthwhile, order became important.
“Good fences make good neighbors “ as Frost said. I’m glad you point out how vital maintenance is.
and that bit towards the end
"Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out"
Frost was definitely questioning the purpose of a wall and I see the fence poem of mine the same.
Altho, " gaze at the moon til
I lose my senses
Can't stand hobbles and
I can't stand fences
Don't Fence Me In
I want to ride to the ridge where the West commences
And gaze at the moon 'til I lose my senses
I can't look at hobbles and I can't stand fences
Don't fence me in
Making order out of chaos and then choosing to maintain it. Love it.
Seems to be what many of us spend a good bit of time doing.
Is there anything else, really? Well, I guess as your poem points out, you can always just let the fence go and join the party! I can’t help but wonder if our society hasn’t collectively let the fence go and joined the party!
Yep, it does seem largely so to me as well but then again it's also true that every generation feels that things are going to shit and nothing was like the good old days. I distinctly remember my grandpa saying that things really went to shit when the radio came in and my dad rolling his eyes.
The daughter of a fine carpenter. Your poem has caused me to reflect on my dad.
He was one of nine kids, so yes he valued his space. A man of few words but never wavered from having 'a man of your word' constitution. Animals were his soft spot. He loved them all and they knew it, as we did, too. Thank you for your words which have reminded me of him.
thanks Sandy. I am very fond of animals, a great deal more than people. Perhaps you'll read these other poems that are all carpentry oriented, ostensibly. I am also big on love poems, what I call smoochy poems.
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/looking-at-wood
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/would-there-be-wood
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/paid-in-full
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/more-wood
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/raise-the-grain
Caution for self preservation, building that environment that keeps you safe or helps us hide? Complex and no excuses necessary for mixing the recipe that will turn into something worth offering to ourselves and others
Watching the chaos that was us in our children and grandchildren teaches much about ourselves doesn’t it
I agree, I agree, I agree. As I have said before, it is something special to be understood, thanks.
I am looking ahead to several poems where the speaker is utterly unreliable, maybe a buffoon or a complete jackass. I have no idea why but I know they're coming. My father, among many of his skills, was an interrogator. He had a way of asking the most oblique questions (to his sons) and when he was done you knew he had his answers but you had no idea why. It was unnerving as hell.
How much we all have in common, Wes seeking answers, all of us imperfect, hoping we understand at least some of it.
Your insight, words and recognition of the complexity that is this life is art. p.
Ha! (and thanks) I'm gonna stick your words on the front jacket of my next book of poems, I'm serious. What else could a poet hope for (besides having the poems withstand the test of time)?
order over chaos - yes indeed. enjoyed this piece.
Thank you Lori. Can you read that response below? Wading around in chaos probably helped me sort things out in those early years as it probably did for all young people who were as clueless as I was.
I like it. Choose order over chaos. Mend those fences.
Thanks,
When I was a young man, I gravitated towards the chaos and it had its merits, for that age, I guess but when I decided to try to accomplish something worthwhile, order became important.