Rooted

An old tree’s stuck where it has grown, and I
feel stuck as well though in a different way
than it who reaches slowly toward the sky,
from just one place to drink each solar ray.
I’m stuck not in a geographic sense
but with my limits of biology;
not stopped from moving by my roots or fence,
but stuck with who I am, afflicting me.
I don’t think trees resent their being stuck
nor long for what they lack—mobility.
Like theirs, perhaps my stuckness doesn’t suck,
if it’s of rootedness, and I am free
to grow toward light, though I am rooted too,
by way of things I say, or sing, or do.

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Mario A. Pita

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Chocolate

As I ate chocolate late one afternoon,
with sunlight streaming in the living room,
it dawned on me as I lifted my spoon
the ice cream sweetness I could then consume
had been made possible since energy
from sunlight had converted, turning sweet,
as sugars in life’s far-flung greenery,
translating for all life the light and heat.
I felt my life as sponsored by the sun
and plants that turned its fusion into food.
My sense of separateness that weighed a ton
grew lighter, like a leaf, as did my mood.
A cup of chocolate did for me this favor:
in it, I tasted oneness—sweetest flavor.

chocolate ice cream

Photo: chocolate ice cream, Oxygen_JP

Mario A. Pita

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Eternity Prerequisite

Imagine if a rose knew it would die
and therefore didn’t bother to unfurl
because it couldn’t see a reason why
to blossom from its bud-wrapped little curl
if its life was a temporary show,
perhaps a pitstop for a passing bee,
a pollen dwelling for new seeds to sow,
whereas it wished to live eternally.
Self-centered in this way I’ve often been,
as if life’s meaning hinged on my survival
forever in the form that I was in,
restored by God in posthumous revival.
But may I be life-centered like a blossom,
for life itself, mysterious and awesome.

Pink Precipitation

Pink Precipitation, Peter Whitfield

Mario A. Pita

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Riveting

At fifty-five, no aging sage, still fool,
I strive to learn each day a thing that’s new,
though it’s been decades since I went to school,
I’ve learned much more in life than all I knew,
for learning is a thrill and not a rule,
enforced as something that I have to do,
so that for me it’s not a drain but cool―
enriching, entertaining, awesome too.
Today I learned to use a power tool,
to drive in for a wall a rivet screw;
a riveting experience, a jewel
as part of volunteer construction crew.*
To learning of new things, I won’t say no:
it’s always infinite―what I don’t know.

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* with Habitat for Humanity

Mario A. Pita

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Homecoming

for Amy

Like someone who has been away from home
feels happy at the thought they’ll soon arrive,
after so much time they had to roam
on rough terrain where it was hard to drive,
that’s how I feel when going to see you,
as if you were my heart’s home, so I strive
to tell of what it’s like so you feel too
my sense of happiness that you’re alive.
You’ve listened to my tales of rough terrain,
but on the road that leads to you I’ve felt
the jagged troubles cluttering my brain
as icicles that in your sunlight melt.
Through darkness-riddled roads I’ve traveled on,
you’ve lit my mind’s horizon, like a dawn.

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Mario A. Pita

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Rehearsal Lesson*

A homeless man who plucked a loaned guitar
showed me the piano chords to play along,
and though I’m furthest thing from music star,
I managed to accompany his song,
because he showed me what to me was hard
and patiently corrected what was wrong,
and though life’s tribulations left him scarred,
within his love for music, he was strong.
Now I am grateful that I got to learn
to play along with that song’s lively beat
and sad that some are judged by what they earn,
by if they have a home or make ends meet:
homelessness was not his defining feature,
and I saw something else in him―a teacher.

Treble Tree-oil

* Rehearsing for a service by Common Cathedral at Boston Healthcare for the Homeless

Mario A. Pita

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Feline Island

You cuddle with your cat who brings you peace
while trouble vortexes swirl all around,
and though their turbulence may never cease,
your feline island forms a steady ground
where they that loomed so large seem to decrease,
and tightly tensed up nerves can be unwound,
and small contentment slowly can increase
till it’s a continent with purring’s sound.
You cuddle with your cat and form a world,
and though your troubles don’t there disappear,
they seem to shrink around where you are curled,
protected through a purring atmosphere.
Life’s surging problems won’t be feline-solved,
but while you form an island, they’re dissolved.

drawing by anpuvarkey

Drawing, which inspired the sonnet, by Anpuvarkey
from  The Elephant in the Room: Women Draw Their World, 2016

Mario A. Pita

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