Consternation of Ordinary Things

The Patience of Ordinary Things 

by Pat Schneider . 

It is a kind of love, is it not? 

How the cup holds the tea, 

How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare, 

How the floor receives the bottom of the shoes, 

Or toes, 

How soles of feet know 

Where they’re supposed to be. 

 I’ve been thinking about the patience 

Or ordinary things, how clothes 

Wait respectfully in closets 

And soap dries quietly in the dish 

And towels drink the wet 

From the skin of the back. 

And the lovely repetition of stairs. 

And what is more generous than a window? 

. . 

I Shall Argue With Pat Schneider's Poem with a poem of my own. 

The Consternation of Ordinary Things 

by Mushroom Montoya . 

When I place the white dotted red cap
Onto my mushroom coffee cup
As I sit on my wobbly chair
That pushes my weight against the floor
Who must use the same amount of upward force
To keep us from sinking
Into the middle of the Earth.
My ordinary clothes are impatient,
Jabbering in the closet,
Hoping I will wear them
Instead of the clothes in my drawers.
My soap stays liquidy wet
In its bottle.
As my towel complains about the water
It drinks is too plain and boring
And is pathetically predictable
As the repetition of stairs.
The glass in my windows whines
Whenever I pull the shade for privacy
Because the window is just a blatant exhibitionist.

Don't Tell

The very first time we met was in my Uncle Tony's little convenience store in Bernalillo when I was 7 and you were 5. I had walked into the store, hoping that Uncle Tony would give me some free penny candy. His brother, my Uncle Ray, winked at me and gave me about five pieces of hard candy from a small wooden barrel.You came in there with a lady who I assumed was your mom. You asked her to buy you some candy. She gave you a look that even scared me. Your lips quivered as were about to cry when you saw me. I fiddled with the candy in my hand. A tear slid down your cheek. When your mom was getting the money out of her purse to pay for what she bought, I walked and stood next to you. I followed Uncle Ray's example and I winked at you as I put one of my candies in your hand and whispered, "Don't tell."

God Has No Divine Plan

A friend in Uganda, wrote to me and told me that God has a vision for me and that I should keep praying and seeking God.

This is my response:

God talks to me every day. 

We laugh together often 

throughout each day. 

She blooms flowers for me. 

She sweetens our oranges 

and brings chirping birds to our birdfeeders. 

She dances across the sky at dawn, 

painting the sky orange, pink, and purple. 

She smiles at me at night 

in the sliver of the moon. 

She reminds me that I am a blessing 

and She works through me 

to end the suffering 

and heal the people who come to me. 

She teases me, 

reminding me not to take myself 

or life 

too seriously. 

She reminds me 

She talks to everyone's heart, 

Inspiring them to share love 

with all Her creatures. 

God also laughs 

when She hears people insist 

that She is 

a male. 

When I had my first heart attack, 

I asked God, 

“Why didn't I die? 

Do you have a plan for me? 

What is my purpose?” 

She laughed and said, 

"Mushroom, You delight me. 

I have no plan 

or purpose 

for you 

or anyone. 

Why would I need that? 

I created you out of love. 

I want you to be the best you 

you can be.

And you choose your way. 

I will help you 

because I love you. 

I have no divine plan 

for you 

or anyone. 

Does that make you nervous 

or do you see the freedom 

I have gifted you?

Continue to be 

the delight 

that you are. 

That is why 

I created you."

Santy Claws

 We all love Xmas trees, especially Santy Claws.

Click on "Go to this Sway" to hear me read my Xmas poem. Scroll down below the photo and click on the tiny diamond arrow to listen. 

Santy Claws

Go to this Sway

Origin of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer

 Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer was created by a copy editor working for the Montgomery Ward department store in 1939. I recorded the story.

Click on the link to hear me read the story to you:

https://sway.office.com/j7cRBDfmhd7PKvHW?ref=Link

Dare To Be Uniquely You

 By Mushroom Montoya

Why do we succumb to conformity
Wrapping a muzzle on our creativity,
On our ability to be beautiful
In our own unique way?

It has always been those who dare
To be the odd ones
Ridiculed, teased, and sometimes beaten
For daring to be
Their own true selves

Who, in doing so,
Crack open Freedom’s door
A little wider
Stretching what is acceptable
Proper, and perhaps just OK
For everyone else.

Dare to be who and what you are
Without conformity’s cloak
Choking the beauty
That you are.

Don't Be Late!

Click This to listen to the poem
Don’t Be Late!

By Mushroom Montoya

I’m running late,
For a date of our own making,
Creating a turbulence
In my mind,

While continually twisting a knot
In my gut
For what?
               I

                    don’t

                                  know. 

Both my hands and all of my feet are
Desperately trying to catch up with my eyes
Who zoom from one “must do now”
To the “Oh my god, I need to do that first.”

 

So terribly hectic I go
That I miss out on the natural flow
Of my own existence.

I lunge ahead

Into an imaginary “next”,
Whirling me out of my ability to focus
On the beauty all around me.
As I rush to get the next thing done.

And then I feel exhausted,

                     Over-worked,

                                           And bewildered
Wondering how I’ve lost control.

And then I collapse under our guava tree
Who cradles me under her branches
Telling me I needn’t race
To finish the day,

To get things done,
To run from here to there
Because all that rushing
Only brings me to
Where I am
At this very moment.

“Stop,”
She clatters with her leaves,
“Breathe.

Take this minute.
To delight in my dazzling blooms.

“Your breath is life’s gift to you.
Enjoy it,

                Feel it,

                            Taste it.
Now.

Listen to the cool breeze,
Whispering stories of butterflies,
Flittering from orange blossom to rose bloom
As they escape the beaks of hungry birds.

Be one with the flowers,

Enjoying sex
With the bees,

Frolicking through their petals.

Be grateful for these quiet moments
For they are delicious
When you slow down enough
To savor them.

 

You can only do that
When you shift into the Now

That is ever present,
Just waiting for you
To notice.”

I Am Grateful for Lawn Sprinklers

I am grateful for lawn sprinklers

That lure me

With their mesmerizing buzz

 

Where I am

delightfully snared

by the sight of water droplets,

 

Bending into an arch

and splashing

on the grass,

 

As the sunshine

Dresses them

in shimmering galaxies,

 

While the birds are chirping;

Telling stories

of blustering wind

and gully washer rains,

 

While shrouding

the low drone of car engines,

whizzing along on the freeway.

 

I stand in awe,

Feeling

My heart beating

a tranquil song.

 

 

Can She Know Who She Is?

  Can She Know Who She is?

By Mushroom Montoya

A wise man said,
If she knows who she is
She will never be lost.

Can she know who she is
and still be lost in a forest,
Caught in the beauty
All around her?

 

Can she know who she is
and still be lost in a classroom
when the teacher is referencing
a passage in a book,
while she is distracted by a bird,
flying by the window?

 

Can she know who she is
and still be lost in grief
when the person she loves the most
dies?

 

Can she know who she is
and still be blissfully lost in love
with the one she cherishes?

 

Can she know who she is
when she is constantly changing
Into another version from her former self?

 

Or is it that she KNEW
who she was
before the current
passing moment?

 

And isn’t being lost 
an opportunity 
For her to find something new
About herself
That she is evolving into?

 

And isn’t being lost
An opportunity to practice
Finding out who she really is
While she's in motion?

Orange Sliver

Orange Sliver

By Mushroom Montoya

An orange sliver

Extended his finger

Peeking over the horizon.

 

I barely blinked.

And he splashed the sky

With a blazing orange ball,

Snaring the entirety of my attention,

Filling my soul with gratitude.

 

For I am now awake,

And fully alive,

Ready to dive

Into each moment,

 

Smelling the flowers

As they spread their wings

And flutter their beauty

Into my heart,

 

While the hummingbirds dart

Their dazzling coats

Here and there,

and then they hover,

 

Sharing their zest,

Doing their best

To remind me

I am beautiful, too.

 

STANDING STILL

Snow Blanketed Grass

  Snow Blanketed Grass

by Mushroom Montoya

Feeling naked and exposed
Blades of grass shivered in the cold
winter night.

Huddling together, they sang
as distant church bells rang
Out the time.

They sent their tiny voices
Up to Father Sky
Who looked down upon them
from on high.

He inhaled deeply
while strumming his harp,
inviting the snow-filled clouds
To dance.

The slow floating roly-polies
twirled and swirled,
sprinkling intricately carved jewels

Onto the cold and naked
Blades of grass,
Who wove them
into snowflake blankets,

Keeping them warm
enough
To sing songs of gratitude.

Photos by Katjuscha Schwalbe Boehm

Glorious Arias

By Mushroom Montoya

Even though I barely heard her whisper,

“Look over here,”

Cactus beamed her wide smile,

Shushing me,

“Shh. The others are still sleeping.

Aren’t they so precious in their slumber,

Waiting for the sky to ombre,

So, they could sing,

With gaping mouths,

Their glorious arias

To la Luna.

PISS ON IT

 

Piss On It

By Mushroom Montoya

 

When the luster within me refuses

To shine

Because

My life feels like the dog of heaven

is lifting his leg

and peeing on my feet

Just to piss me off,

 

I remember what Coyote told me,

Far more than once:

“Be

what you want.”

 

I tell you, truly,

Hearing him say that

Used to piss me off.

 

“Piss on it!” he chortled

As he lifted his leg

Threatening to piss on me.

 

“You can’t stay pissed forever,”

He’d say and laugh.

“So, piss on it and let it go!

 

And once the shackles of your agitation

Have fallen to the ground

You can, then,

Be what you want!

 

Be the kindness,

sweetness,

and charm

That you think is missing.

And then your luster will shine

Once again.

 

I glared

at Coyote.

“You’re ruining

My mad!”

 

“Oh, I would never deprive you

Of your mad.”

Coyote smirked.

 

“Wallow in your dark hollow place

Stirring up your wasted rage

Until you see how much it tastes

Like piss.”

 

I had to laugh

And then I asked him,

“How can I get out of my self-pity pool?”

 

He sat on his haunches,

Howled at the moon,

And then winked at me.

 

“Your

words

hold

magic,”

He said in a melodic tone.

 

Leaning close enough

To put his nose onto mine,

He whispered.

“Cast a spell upon yourself.

 

Create an incantation

To change the woeful state of being

You are exposing.”

 

“Easy for you to say,

When you aren’t drowning in…”

 

“Your own piss!” he interjected

With a gleeful grin.

“Silliness will ejaculate you

Out of your self-pity pool.”

 

I burst a laugh

at Coyote’s words.

 

He dimmed his eyes,

Crossed his paws,

And said,

“Breathe.

 

Let the emotion

pass.

 State out loud

who you truly are.

 

And then that is who you will be

 

 As soon as you get off your butt

And do to someone

What you want done to you.” 

Sloth Wisdom

 

I stopped riding my bike to check out a sloth I saw lounging against a tan concrete trash can next to the San Gabriel River bike path. 

 

The sloth wasn't being lazy. She was relaxing, after picking up trash on the riverbed. She asked me why I felt the need to zoom along the river, when there is so much beauty to see. 

 

"Testosterone poisoning is to blame," I said. "And it is the American way. Because time flies, and everything runs in America." 

 

She released a long, slow sigh. "You and your Americans are missing the point of life. Being beautiful is what's important." 

She put her hands behind her head, waiting for me to respond.  

 

"Being beautiful? There is a whole industry racing to sell us beauty products, clothing, cars, houses, and more" I said. 

 

She inhaled, letting her eyes shut. She took her time before opening them again. 

"That is not beauty. That is the distorting of what is already beautiful. Why do you paint your already beautiful faces? Why do you cover your beautiful bodies with clothes when it's too hot to wear anything?" 

 

"Do you think we should run around nude?" I asked. 

 

"Absolutely not. No need to run. Walk slowly, without the silly decorations 

You call clothes. Just be nude, the way the Creator made you.   

You do realize that the Creator only made beauty, don’t you? Everything is beautiful just the way it is. There is no improving on perfection." 

 

"We aren't perfect," I protested. 

 

"Oh, but you are. To believe otherwise is to say the Creator is flawed. Is that what you believe?" 

 

I had no idea that sloths were this philosophical. Since they are not in a hurry, I suppose they have time to think. Her comments and questions were making me think. 

 

"Are you telling me that I'm beautiful?" I asked.  

 

"Of course, you are. Why would you think otherwise? Didn't your mother ooh and awe over your beauty when you were born? Without decorations? Completely and beautifully nude?" 

 

How could I argue with this wise sloth? 

 

 

I trust that this sloth story will bring a smile to your beautiful face and remind you that being beautiful is the point of life.