Counting
Counting, counting, always counting.
12 steps down to the cool cellar
Almost without thinking, realizing
Only at the end ten, eleven, twelve.
How many steps from the kitchen sink
To the kitchen door, from the kitchen door
To the curb where the car sits parked,
Ready and waiting to go, go, go,
A tenth of a mile at a clip, mile
After mile, all 297,000, and then some.
A mathematical world populated
With geometric forms, odd shapes
As if generated at random, but
Logical as logical is said to be.
We moveable icons pass among
One another, relatively speaking
Without mishap; is it because
We are clusters of energy
Of alternate polarities designed
To steer clear of foreign objects?
Which is the true form, “forest
Or field”? To whom do we owe
This debt of gratitude, this
Formulation that carries us
From day to day, here to there,
Step by step, cautiously seeking
To discover what’s next, even
While it’s before our own eyes?
What fractal equation forces us together,
Woman and man, woman and woman,
Man and man? What fractal
Tears us apart, arm, leg, head,
In matters of war. And peace?
Does each generation ponder
On its pathway to the grave
Whether changing a zero to one
Or one to zero, two to three
Or ten to ten thousand, whether
The numbers add up to anything
More than an accumulation
Of laughter or sorrow? Do we
Manage our futures, or does
Despair manage us? What
Is the geometry of innocence?
How many or few the steps
We take to understanding?
The nebulous, the certain,
Cautious and caring, a triangle
Or parallelogram, particles
That exist, or only appear to exist
Because we cannot see or feel
Or detect them, but know their presence
By established theories of influence,
By shadows cast in moonlight
By the casual way we tie our shoes,
the way we count our blessings
cast our nets, spin our webs.
A piece of you
I want a piece of you.
Yes, I really do.
Just a small part,
A corner of your palette
Dust from the floor
Beneath the table
Where you polish
The incandescent metals
Of your ancient trade.
I want a piece of you
To hang on the wall,
Place on a glass shelf
In a curio cabinet
Where the curious
Will gather to look
And see what
We’ve been doing
All these years.
I want a piece of you
I can take to the bank,
That I can dive into
Like a frog into a murky pond,
That I can caress, kiss
And save as a token
Of our mutual respect,
Being that we came
Such a long way to get here
And the crossing
Was so quick.
Ask me for a poem, then,
In exchange for the look,
And a taste of magnesium
On steel on my tongue,
A flavor not unlike that
I imagine you have on yours
At the end of days.
Magically it will appear –
Calibrated lines
Rising and falling
On the skin of my back.
Mike Foldes is a sales engineer specializing in medical displays. A graduate of The Ohio State University in anthropology, he has edited and published magazines, poetry anthologies, chapbooks, alternate newspapers, technical publications, and was a newspaper editor and columnist. He is founder of the online magazine Ragazine.CC, author of Sleeping Dogs: A true story of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping …” and Sandy: Chronicles of a Superstorm, a volume of poetry and images in collaboration with artist Christie Devereaux. His articles, editorials, poems and stories have appeared in translation into Romanian, Hungarian, French and Spanish. e-mail: editor@ragazine.cc.
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