Making toast used to be simpler.
You’d just drop it into the toaster
and out would pop the toast, done just like you like it.
No muss no fuss no guesswork!
Today it’s all about choices
considerations
deliberations even . .
modern conveniences run amok!
“Intelligent” appliances.
You supply the intelligence.
***
Tim Konrad
25 November 2015
Grinding the Birch Trees into Mulch
Saturday morning mayhem
chain saws, leaf blowers
the horrible and insistent roar . .
grinding the birch trees into mulch.
Undoing in a couple of hours
what took decades to establish
altering for decades
the nature of the surroundings.
Bug-infested, they said
not getting enough water
they weren’t the right trees for this location anyway
but the way they used to sparkle
in the early morning light
as the fog retreated gently
giving way to sheer delight
Is a scene not soon forgotten
in the annals of before
and one much more compelling
than the tree-grinders’ roar
Lining the street on both sides
delightful, assuring,
they helped define the character
of this picturesque place.
Plant new trees, some say
different species this time
but the birch trees were planted
in 1989.
Newcomers won’t have any way of knowing
save in pictures
what it looked like
before the steel termites struck
but long after the roar of the wood chipper has faded
the rest of us will remember
like fragments from a dream
what the avenue once looked like
when the birches reigned supreme.
**
20 November 2015
Tim Konrad
Water
went to a party.
At the party
Water noticed
the dancers . . .
how Gravity led
while Surface and Substrate followed.
Seeing
that Water seemed interested in their dance,
Gravity invited Water to dance with him and the others
And that’s how River came about.
Tim Konrad
27 October 2015
I have returned
from a place
where feelings needed to be constrained
and maintaining a professional demeanor was expected.
A place
where dispassionate presence
was a necessary tool
an indispensable technique
in order that one not be swept up
and enveloped
in the anguish
and the hopelessness
and despair
that was part of the fabric
of the lives of many of those
whom I was trying to help.
I have awakened
from a dream
in which I had almost forgotten what it felt like
to experience awe
to feel the joy of a sunrise
appreciate the tenderness in a mother’s smile
and the sparkle in a child’s eye
laugh with abandon over little silly nothings
and marvel at the lack of guile
of little children at play
A dream where I had become estranged from my feelings
to such an extent and for so long
that I had almost lost the ability to weep
readily
without warning
at anything hinting at the absolute raw beauty
the dignity, the humanity
of our collective venture
on this spinning clump of stone and blood and hope
that some view as a loving presence
the source of all nourishment
while others simply see real estate.
I have returned
from a place
where I had almost lost the ability
to feel the pain
of those less fortunate
whose legions rise
even as the republic sinks
in selfishness.
A life well-lived
is a life deeply felt.
A life without feeling
is an opportunity lost–
a gift spurned
a path ignored
an ode to sadness
and a litany of what might have been.
I welcome my tears!
I rejoice in their return
they remind me of my humanity
of the connectedness
that binds us to the consequences
of each others’ acts
and of the love
that is the ground of our collective Being.
There is little difference, after all
between the sparkle in a child’s eye
and the twinkling of the stars.
Tim Konrad
Petaluma
23 October, 2015
The sudden death of a neighbor up the street.
The not so sudden but totally unanticipated passing
of another friend who had suffered for months
with an aggressive form of cancer known only to a few.
So this is what getting old is like
losing members of your flock
with increasing frequency.
Each of them stunning, each sending you reeling,
riding emotions for which no preparation can soften the sting
The regrets that follow . . .
I wish I’d been kinder to her
We should have visited more
Why didn’t I make more effort to stay in touch?
If only I hadn’t let what now appear to be petty annoyances
affect the quality of my devotion
My dad used to say he was reading the obituaries
to see if he was in them.
Something to pass the time
If not keeping in touch,
a way to keep track
until your name appears.
14 September 2015
Tim Konrad
Eating ice cream with a fork
Watching it’s buttery goodness
slip slowly down into the recesses of my hand
in hot awe!
Surrender!
Sweet syrupy sugary surrender!
Cherry Garcia of my heart surrender!
coursing along the delineations of my fingers
following an inclination toward nothing in particular
or considerable mischief
open-ended and succinct
dallying in saccharine sunlit pools of ecstasy . . .
Timeless!
Eating ice cream with a fork
***
Eating ice cream with a fork
On a lazy Sunday afternoon on Thursday
Feeding a hunger more defined by what it is not
than by what it is
Is the answer the question?
Is the meaning of life an off-handed remark
thrown by a dark boy in a smoke-filled alleyway
in Syria?
Is it the departure of an old friend? The arrival of a new one?
An old refrain or a new lullaby?
A tear shed in joy? Or a song for the ages?
Is it the iridescence of a spider’s web caught in the dew of dawn’s bright embrace?
Or is it the courage to take yet another step?
Is it, ummm, the Donald? Nope!
It is all these things
and even that one
Especially that one!
***
Eating ice cream with a fork
On a lazy Sunday afternoon on Thursday . . .
Lying like a Grouper tucked in among the kelp
Waiting for a little minnow to pass by . . .
10 September 2015
Tim Konrad
Trying a new IPA for the first time:
On first taste I detect a dankness.
I just discovered that word , “dankness” recently
as a much sought-after descriptor
for a flavor characteristic I have been encountering
more and more in new beers
and one I have instinctively disliked.
It’s comforting to have a name for something
be it a new social phenomenon, or a bodily symptom
or a feeling encountered for the first time.
Or, in this case, a quality of beer.
But a name alone is scarce reassurance
when faced with the uncertainty
of being out of one’s element
in new beer territory.
Alerted and apprehensive,
I press forward.
The beer maker’s description of this beer
includes the word “malt”–
and, curiously, pairs it
with the words “biscuity creaminess.”
I don’t like malt!
So, when I encounter “malt” in a beer’s description
a red flag is hoisted high
and that beer almost always loses by default
in subsequent negotiations
In this instance, I suspend judgment,
my determination overriding my suspicions.
Something else I am on the lookout for,
when exploring new IPAs,
is the presence of Simcoe hops.
My favorite IPAs all include this blessed ingredient.
The brew under consideration
the only IPA on the menu
boasts the presence of other hop varieties–
Columbus, Mosaic, something named East Kent Goldings
but not Simcoe.
I have drunk brews made of Mosaic hops to good effect.
But the presence of the others weaves more threads of doubt
into the fabric of my uncertainty.
At this point I’m reminded
of why I came to this spot in the first place.
It sits across the street
from one of my favorite watering holes in this town.
But that establishment
demonstrated the incredibly poor judgment
to replace most of its already meager parking lot
with an expansion of its brewing facilities
with the promise of a larger parking area
IN THE FUTURE!!
But
Time waits for no man (or brewery), as they say,
and the boulevard across which one must venture
to gain access to this venerable institution
is literally fraught with peril
there being no crosswalk
or traffic light
and an abundance of cars speeding by
piloted by harried and deadline-driven drivers
hell-bent on reaching their destinations,
jaywalkers notwithstanding.
Suffice it to say I will have none of it
and theirs will be the loss until such time as
THE FUTURE arrives
and order can be restored to the universe
and the nectar found in that place
can once again tease my palette.
By now I’m more than several sips into this newly discovered brew
and I find its biscuity creaminess rather surprisingly capable
of taming its malt character
not to mention its alcohol content.
And what was initially a dubious proposition
given the aforementioned considerations
and in further consideration of them
is beginning to amount to an acceptable substitute,
an agreeable consolation,
that slowly morphs, as the draught’s volume decreases,
into a dawning realization
that there are more things in life, and in beer,
than being able to have your favorite beverage
at your beck and call
on your own terms and in the manner of your choosing,
and that there are, to abuse an oft-quoted adage or two,
more brews in the ocean, more ales to fry,
and fewer reasons to spend one iota of time or energy
in the bemoaning of not getting what one wants
and infinitely more reasons to rejoice in the abundance of life
in whatever manner one chooses to envision it.
Tim Konrad
9 December 2015
Going through the stuff
I’ve put off dealing with for ages
finally paying the price
for not taking the time.
Desktop archaeology . . .
A Sisyphean task . . .
a procrastinater’s nightmare
or a hoarder’s wet dream.
Mounds of detritus
each pile, each piece, assigned to
some future time
when, magically,
it will be disposed of
more properly.
Piles of stuff
each a reminder, as it’s uncovered
of why it was put there in the first place.
Strata deposited
layer upon layer
like the leavings of many winters’ rains
on the topology of my desk.
Old receipts, old notes, reminders
Reminders of reminders
eyes blinking, emerging to the light of day
Expired offers, mementos, souvenirs,
old business cards and unopened mail
some priceless, mostly junk
Forgettable yet unforgotten, pleading
nay, demanding to be addressed
if for no other reason than the space they take up
begs for freedom, order, relief,
if even for a moment,
before the inevitable onslaught
of more stuff,
like the coming rains,
will deliver the space once again to the realms of flotsam and dross.
**
5 December 2015
Tim Konrad
Friendship
Amid all the changes the world has undergone in recent years
The simple act of making friends remains the same.
You meet someone
you like them
they like you
and a friendship emerges.
How durable the friendship
takes time to determine
as does the friendship’s strength
but its character
depends on the stuff the friends are made of,
likewise the sincerity of the commitment
the dependability when times are hard
the willingness to forgive
and the graciousness to forget
but, most of all, the goodness of heart.
***
When death ends a friendship
and the friend was pure of heart
the loss is all the more profound
as measured by the response of the persons’ friends
to the news of his/her passing.
The emptiness left behind
is emptier.
Those whose presence was substantial
leave behind a void that is immeasurable,
made all the more distinguished
by their remarkable nature.
***
The stories shared about them afterward
are remarkable too
and are imbued with the grandness of spirit
that defined them.
***
We are made greater in spirit
from having known them:
We do not forget them
for they were exceptional.
***
Many of us lost a great friend today.
He was all the things that define an outstanding person–
he was kind, he was patient, he was funny
and he was genuine.
He will always live on in our hearts.
I feel grateful to have known him.
Sleep gently, my friend.
**
RIP Bill Hand
Tim Konrad
25 November 2015
sonora2sonoma 