The Rich Vegetarian

An Examined Life

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Category: Poetry (page 1 of 3)

That Kind of Love

You fall in love with a place, a person, an animal
A painting, a piece of music, an actor, a movie.

You fall in love with a moment, a point in time
A place of quiet, a space of meaning and significance

A recipe, a piece of clothing, a book, a flavor of ice cream

And so it goes.

And then it so happens that one day a flower blooms within,
A ray of light seems to emerge straight out of you
A fountain bursts forth into radiant, shimmering jewel tones
Spraying music and light and fun all around.

And then it dawns: You have fallen in love

With life.

And now it is all covered, nothing left out, no one remains untouched
This is the loveliest love of all.

It is never alone, it spares not a soul
It starts pouring out generously, dissolving the worlds and stars and skies and oceans and you.

And that’s the awesomest love of all.

Talk is Easy

“Don’t you feel that there is such a lot of chatter going on all the time?”
“Like you are surrounded by a bunch of chatty folks all the time?”
“No, it isn’t just that.”

Talk is easy, quick and cheap
You can talk through the day until the sun sets, and then all night long.
Start the chatter and careless banter as day breaks,
Then there is TV and talk radio, interviews and people holding forth endless opinions,
And the grocery store and yoga studio, salon and gym.

It is on Facebook and Instagram, Twitter and Tumblr,
We all have something to say, our voices count, our opinions matter.

Even when the voices have died down, the talk continues.

Unceasing, relentless, changing and evolving, yes.

“Let me speak, I have been silent so long
I want to share too, I have been quiet for years,
I would like for someone to hear me too.”

I wish it was quieter, I really do.

Winter Yearning

I am looking to find a name for this yearning,
that emerges on a late winter night,
or early dawn.

When it gets cold and chilly, and the desire for comfort commingles with the one for warmth and closeness,
Hands go forth searching, the fingers clasping, curled up into each other,
Bodies curve inward, fitting like two crescents, soft and curved, curled and shaped.

The comforter and quilt and warm woolen blankets all get merged and layered,
coming together, never pulling apart.

It is the state between sleep and wakefulness, it is a half-dream, a silent conversation,
It is home and warm breaths and half-murmured imaginings, am I dreaming or is this real?
Perhaps I am recounting a dream.

But now I am gone again,
and we drift off into this half-lit, humidified quiet, warmed and whirring heater space.