That Must Be the Way a Potato Feels

Thu, 08/06/2015 - 16:27 -- Aerist

Like light burning on the mountains.

That must be the way a potato feels when he slips into sizzling oil,

When he is adorned with salt, dressed for his dance into the pearly gates of digestion.

What a way to live, coming from the grit of the earth,

And rising above to complete his purpose with a flamboyance only he has, can give.

A French fry, the potato who went above and beyond;

The valedictorian of his class, I'm sure.

I need to take notes.


Imagine the pride of an ant work crew after dragging a sticky lifesaver from the side walk to their metropolis,

A total of three feet,

And they have provided their entire city with food to last for days,

Days equivalent to eons in their microscopic world.

They bore a mountain of provision to their families,

All because a small child gagged it out after realizing it was mint flavored.

They must feel like conquerors,

Spectacular in every way.

I need to take notes.


Just as spectacular as a stallion after the Kentucky Derby,

Glistening with sweat and adrenaline,

Wearied with the weight of jubilant accomplishment.

Just as spectacular as the robin who has completed her masterpiece,

Woven her home, a nest, a beautiful cottage in the trees,

Waiting to receive the pastel little marbles.

Like light burning on the mountain,

So exultant jubilee must burst forth in their breasts, untamed, untempered.

I should take notes;

That is beautiful.


Empowered, that must be the way my pen feels gripped tightly by my ready fingers,

And the words flow like honey from a comb.

Fulfilled, that must be the way a river feels as life courses anew every moment;

With the salmon surging upstream and the children's shrill cries of glee breaking the air.

Loved, that must be the way the battered and stained blanket feels

Nestled on soft toddler cheeks, clutched by sticky hands.

In Awe, must be the way a father's whole being feels as tears spring forth,

his heart skips a beat to listen to the mewl of the still-soggy red creature in the doctor's arms.

I am taking notes as we speak.


Like light burning on the mountains, so are purposes fulfilled, opportunities maximized.

Like mist lounging over the solitary lake, so is novelty discovered.

Maybe I would like to be a fried potato, if death meant life was so much riper.

Perhaps I would like to be an ant if small feats were transformed into Herculean wonders.

Or the Thoroughbred stallion, if life was an exhilarating sprint, or the robin's contented spirit.

These things leap from day to day, and yet are full of the same old novelty each time uncovered.


Like free flowing ink in a pen, so the sun dies a glorious death on the ocean,

Only to rise anew in the mornin and do it all over again.

Like a river pulsing, swirling, careening life to its final destination,

So the Sioux emitted one last battle cry before the rifles fired.

Like a shabby old blanket used to uselessness by dirty fingers,

So there is full life in death. 


This poem is about: 
Our world


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