Origami Microchap

Click title to download PDF microchap

Cover collage by Jan Keough

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Compatibility

If you liked figs
and I was the only one
who liked beets
life would not be as smooth.
But neither of us cares for figs
(though I don't mind
a fig newton now and then)
and we both love beets.
It matters little
that you cook beets whole
while I quarter them first
and toss in half a lemon.
A little butter, a little pepper,
we're both happy,
and the figs don't care.

Fridays

When you are mostly retired
it doesn't really make much difference
what day it is,
unless you have one of those
rare events that actually matter,
like choir practice
or a hair appointment
(not me: my barber does walk-ins)
or an oil change,
and you actually remembered
to put it on the  calendar.

But it is still fun to pretend
that you have made it
through another grueling week
and it's finally five o'clock Friday
and you're by-God entitled
to a double martini before dinner
and maybe another on the patio after,
if the wind dies down.

I believe it makes the drinks taste better.

Pipe-Cleaners

   James Joyce used 29,899 different words
   in his novel Ulysses.*

How long do you suppose it took someone
(or the computer) to count the words in Ulysses,
then go back to cross out
all the words used more than once
and count the ones left behind?

How confident do you suppose
that person was of the result—
that he or she had not flubbed,
missed a few repeaters,
logged plurals or possessives inconsistently?

And how did typos figure in?
Rumor is there were quite a few,
especially in the early editions.
Were these counted as real, unique words
or guessed-at and logged as something else?

In the end, who cares?
A unique feat, perhaps, but on a par
with a model of the Eiffel Tower
made from pipe cleaners.
The glory all remains with Joyce and Eiffel.

* Noted in Frances Mayes,
The Discovery of Poetry, p. 26

Light

If I were phosphorescent
I could be useful in many ways:
A night-light for my grandchildren
when strange sights and sounds
in their dark rooms terrify them.
A warning signal when the low-water bridge
has been washed out by a flash flood
and someone is barreling down the road.
An escort for the old lady
coming back from the corner market
with a can of soup for her dinner.
A replacement for the burned-out bulb
in the brass lamp above the front door.
A warm glow to calm myself
when the night threatens to engulf me.

But I am not.
I remind myself
that I must tell only happy bedtime stories;
that people need to drive with caution,
look both ways before crossing the street;
that LED and CFL bulbs last much longer;
that the night will give way to dawn.

You Are What You Drink

I drink my coffee strong and black.
Hot or cold doesn’t greatly matter,
so if there is a bit left
in the bottom of the pot
in late afternoon,
and I need a little pick-me-up,
well, I’ll drink that as-is.

Billy Collins has written that
He drinks his coffee “light and sweet.”
This may explain
why he is rich and famous
and I am still busting my chops
to get a piece published
now and then.

Maybe my poems, like my coffee,
aren’t sweet enough,
or are too heavy, too cold. Whatever.
I’ll be damned if I’ll ruin
a good cup of French Roast
just for a few books
and a Guggenheim.

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C.T. Holte © 2022

Click title to download PDF microchap

Cover design by Jan Keough

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Late-Summer Distraction

Watching the heron
play statue in the reeds
on the far side of the cove,
waiting for its breakfast,
is a better way to spend
a perfect sunny morning hour
than struggling to write a poem.

Book Math

If not donating sufficiently
to take-one-leave-one little libraries
were a crime, I’d likely be in jail.

Such breaches of contract
unbalance the universe,
deprive someone of a choice.

Supply is not a problem:
bookstores–new and used–
dangle temptation at my fingertips;
book clubs demand my attention;
on-line ordering is too easy.
I am always on the plus side.

My intentions are good:
it is my memory that fails me.
I stack an assortment of books
by the back door, ready to be donated,
entreat the muses of art and poetry
to help me bring the world of books
back into balance,
to leave one when I take one.

Pain Management

  (While reading The Shadow of the Wind,
   by Carlos Ruiz Zafon)

My shoulders are not sufficient
to carry the weight
of the world and its idiocies,
my brain not deep enough
to conjure good from bad
or craft shiny new clichés,
my eyes not sharp enough
to see the silver lining
in each cloud.

Of all the pains that could be,
mine are small
but enough:
life’s ladle dishes up
each day’s plate
and I come to the table
with my small spoon.

Maintenance

A bicycle wheel can still roll
with a couple spokes loose
or missing.
A shirt will stay on you,
though looking tacky,
with one less button
than called for
(though if there is a spare
button down at the bottom
that you have not sewn on,
tacky applies to you
as well as your appearance).

Which is why
keeping things tuned up
(not just bicycles and shirts
but cars, pianos, guitars, etc.)
and working as designed
is an essential part
of having those things
(including your country);
else they will fail you
and you them.

Presents

I gave her the electric drill for her birthday
because she needed one, and deserved
a nice one that came with a set of drill bits
and a good rugged carrying case.

She did not understand
that it was a professional-quality
double-insulated beauty with a keyless chuck,
and was variable-speed/reversible.

I did not–at first–understand
that her idea of a proper present is
earrings, a nice dinner out, a bottle of good wine;
always something more for me to learn.

How Cold Was It?

As I walk cautiously from house to car,
alternating between crunch and slide,
snot freezing on my moustache,
last night’s snow snickers,

creeps over my loafers,
melts smugly into my socks,
wrestles for control of my numb
wind-chilled fingers.

When the car finally starts,
the challenged heater brings
the outside inside, reminds me
once again that winter is tangible.

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C.T. Holte © 2021

Click title to download PDF microchap

Cover collage by Jan Keough

Pas des Beaucoup

The dancers create a line,
their fluid forms
sinuous as a symphony.
Their hands sign an opera.
The silence of the space
between themselves and me
fills with
light
shadow
spirit.

A dozen bodies weave as one,
shifting as winded wheat
communicates the coming harvest,
inviting watchers
to enter their community
and with them
become the dance.

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Wet chairs on the deck.
The hostas beneath are blessed.
We complain inside.

Cold again today.
Winter has its benefits,
but this is not one.

Here, there, piles of books.
Eons worth of good reading:
Immortality!

Old dog lies sleeping.
There are no dishes to wash
in her simple world.

After the Fact

I would like to be considered clever,
but I tend to think of clever things to say–
a consoling word,
the perfect snap,
a great conversational gambit–
sometime after I needed to say them.

I now have many of these
written out on index cards
or saved to a file on my phone:
finely tuned things like–
So sorry.
Oh yeah?
How about them Giants?!

However, the last few times
I have needed one of these
I have not been clever enough
to keep the cards in my pocket
or keep my phone battery charged.

Musée

The Museum of Amazing Hugs,
open at all hours,
charges no admission.
People may come and go
as the spirit moves them,
absorbing its unique displays
as best they can.

We are the showcase exhibit,
near-motionless in each other’s arms
behind velvet ropes
in the center of a softly-lit room,
chins resting on shoulders,
hands at times softly
caressing necks or backs.

The sign in the stand beside us
says “Love in Progress.”
Visitors circle around slowly
or observe quietly
from comfortable benches.
Some scatter flowers and prayers
around us before they depart,
smiling or tearful, depending.

 Immortality

I love to read. I have friends
who also like to read,
and I am convinced
that you can’t die
until you have read
all your books.

So I am buying more books–
some to send to my friends
as a life-extending gesture,
many to hold onto myself
for insurance.

Portrait

I’m going to have my picture taken
wearing some huge tortoiseshell glasses,
like a stereotypical librarian.

That way, when people look at my picture,
maybe they will say,
Wow, look at those glasses!
and not notice how big my nose is.

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C.T. Holte © 2021

Puzzles

Click title to download PDF microchap

Cover collage by JanK

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Koan

i.
Seven syllables
following and before five
do not make haiku.

ii.
Count the syllables.
Proper pattern, then haiku,
that’s my opinion.

iii.
The statements above
are directly conflicting.
Which one says haiku?

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Hinges

Hard to see the poetry
in this antique hinge,
the art and filigree
of its gilded age
concealed beneath
a hundred years
of paint and varnish.

Function’s now the all:
no place for craft and artistry;
damn few artisans left
to know or care.

Modern hinges do the job–
hold up a door.
Few display the grace
of this old hinge
or the old house it still accompanies
with that familiar squeak
to invite you in.

Loon

Any lake is better than no lake,
but some lakes are better than others.
It may be a matter of loons.
General rule: no islands, no loons,
perhaps because loons are smart enough
to know that islands offer shelter, safety,
easy access to water on all sides.

Our small lake has no islands,
yet a loon visits from time to time.
Is she hoping for an island to emerge?
Scouting a nesting place?
Or does she–like us–appreciate
the beauty of the maples,
the tranquility of the little cove
from which she serenades us
to announce that she is passing through?

I myself do not need islands–
but shelter and safety, yes,
and access to water.
And it’s lovely to have a loon around.

Puzzling

I am almost certain
there is a magnificent poem
lurking within me,
but given as a jigsaw puzzle.
My mission: scramble around
inside my brain; scoop up
as many pieces as I can find;
figure out how they fit together.

If some pieces can’t be found,
or some of the connector thingies
have broken off,
there will be the additional task
of making educated guesses
as to the what and the where.

I start each day with a prayer
that the search will be a success,
that the finds will be rewarding,
and that sooner or later
there will be something worth sharing.

In case you were wondering–
this is not it.

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C.T. Holte © 2020