You can’t order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, “I’ll take two”
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, “Here’s my address,
write me a poem,” deserves something in reply.
So I’ll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn’t understand why she was crying.
“I thought they had such beautiful eyes.”
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
“The desire to do something really wonderful, and the worry that it’s really awful—and how to rebound from those two situations. I think the most difficult thing is looking at your work and understanding what to edit, and what not to do. I mean there are a million decisions you have to make, and I guess, in the end, one hopes to not be boring. That would horrify me until the end of time if I thought my work was boring.
You also have to have perseverance—and maybe that’s the hardest thing, to persevere and to believe that what you’re doing is worth doing—and to do it, rather than talking about doing it.”
(Source: the99percent.com)
Love the mix of print and pattern from this nursery makeover on Design*Sponge.
Real-life Pinterest board by the incredibly talented Heather Moore of Skinny LaMinx.
