The Ode to Procrastination

~ Patricia Lezama ~ 1 Comment

By Patricia Lezama

Here goes the passerby, weary from little sleep

Struggling to walk, striving to count her steps

She wants to be inspired, to see the beauty of the green gardens in a sunny and blooming spring

She recognizes that balcony, for she has passed by these many cobwebs before

There’s the same new broom resting against the same wall, motionless, they listen to the spiders weave each night a little more in the corner of the ceiling

A lamp blackened with soot and neglect, which once shed light, hangs like a forlorn lover

The cobwebs that were woven with imperceptible threads to catch sustenance, are now dense veils that tarnish the once fresh white corners

There’s another balcony above this one, holding several autumns’ worth of accumulated detritus

Dry leaves pile up on the railing, thirsty for rain they soak placidly, fecund they remain moistening the wood

One day someone stepped out onto that balcony on the first floor and perhaps thought to improve it

They bought that broom, with a head as full of cobwebs as their balcony, they decided to go inside and continue with their battles,

“When it’s less cold outside, I’ll clean,” they said.

Several mornings passed until the radiant, warm, and abrasive sun arrived

With the intention of inviting people over, the tenant went out to the balcony, took the dusty broom, looked at the ceiling, where the second-floor balcony, hovered above rotting, the beginning of collapse

Anger crept in, pushing aside the broom to start complaints

There are no good neighbors anymore, nor good building managers, claims are made, but no one listens, just as no one comes to visit those balconies, only the passage of time and forgetfulness keep them

When they restore the balconies, new decisions will come, say the neighbors, while the administrators delay repairs, prioritizing other duties

The costumed children arrive, peeking at the balcony, organic decorations, they demand their candies and leave singing cheerfully and happily.

When December comes with its lights and festivities

Changes are announced with purposes and purges

But trips and gatherings from outside arrive

Spring comes without warning, laden with pollen and more reasons to do the cleaning

The passerby continues her steps

Preferring that balcony with stacked ¨maybe later¨

than one occupied by so many objects, where space alone delays the stories.

With excessive or few things

Ultimately, it is motivation that thrusts

A movement, small and certain like these steps

bringing one after the other some meaning.

And there remains the broom undisturbed

Posing shyly for the camera that spies upon it

capturing the tales that linger in the corner.

Thanks to the review and collaboration to Melanie Reynolds!

Suffixed

~ Patricia Lezama ~ 6 Comments

I moved away like leaves in the gale, hurriedly and without time.

I heard the word ¨egoism¨ behind me.

And what I awaited was for you to dedicate yourself to yourself

But your anger pointed me out, pushing me into an abysm.

Perhaps long before, we dreamt of becoming an isthmus, a name, a place that would bring us closer, that would unite our worlds. But even to those desires we let be, and the cyclical ancestral routine kept us, pushing us back, gradually turning us into suffixes.

Here and now, in this present moment, without regrets or unknown fears of near futures;

I sit, and I look at myself, breathing, and I declare:

that of all the -isms I have lived with, that one, which subtly corners me,

observing without seeing me, that one which allows me to breathe with a mask,

that one which declares itself appearing as a luxury because it provides comfort, contentment, but in the end,

it laughs with a half-smile at me, at you, at our dreams.

That, and the one I would undoubtedly face again, is the obedient conformism.

When the Elm tree forgot

~ Patricia Lezama ~ 11 Comments

When the Elm tree forgot

Not only humans sometimes forget our purpose, why we came to be on this earth, what fruits to give, and how to flourish.

Once I heard that in a field full of trees an Elm was disoriented. It saw that next to it a fragrant and colorful cherry tree flourished, and people came to visit that tree, to smell it, and contemplate it. It felt envious of that popularity. It wanted to be like the cherry tree, but no matter how hard it tried, every spring it never managed to blossom.

It tried a lot, it exerted itself so much that without realizing it, a group of birds took flight and went to eat at the plum tree in front of it. 

The birds gathered there, sang, and ate in that plum tree. What a beautiful congregation, sighed the Elm.

If I didn’t manage to blossom, I would love to bear fruit. To give something that would make many birds come to cheer me with their songs. But no matter how much it wanted, it didn’t bear fruit, and it missed the birds’ perching on its branches.

No one comes to eat because I don’t bear fruit, no one comes to smell me because I don’t give flowers, the Elm lamented in the seasons.

Perhaps I should be lighter, to be able to climb between walls and windows and thus decorate the houses and gardens inhabited by humans. It then stopped absorbing water, tried to hide from the sun so as not to become stronger. Languidly it wanted to penetrate between the walls, but no matter how hard it tried, it almost lost its roots, as it no longer had leaves or strength. In that convalescent state, it could feel the presence of an owl. A wise and sincere bird, who does not lose flight over trivial matters. “What has happened to you, strong and solid Elm? 

Where I always come to find refuge. Where the weary come to find serenity under your shade on hot days, where the birds come to rest after a long flight, where lovers come to be inspired. Where children lose their fear of climbing high.

You are an Elm tree, you won’t bloom like the cherry tree, nor bear fruit like the plum tree, nor climb like the vines; you have come to provide shade, shelter, and strength, because each one comes to offer what one intentionally likes to be.

Inspired by a story told on the psi.mammoliti podcast.