Posts for June 19, 2020 (page 7)

Compare line by line.

report only when
two are the same

output lines
of unified context

in two columns

show
each change

show the most recent
matching

expand spaces
make line up

recursively follow
symbolic links

treat absent as empty
ignore differences

ignore changes
due to expansion

ignore end
try hard

assume many scattered
‘never’, ‘always’

if trouble
access

the complete manual.

—
Found poem (erasure) from the Linux Man Pages. Complete text here:
https://man7.org/linux/man-pages/man1/diff.1.html
AUTHOR
Written by Paul Eggert, Mike Haertel, David Hayes, Richard Stallman,
and Len Tower.

right in the middle of the meeting
i got an awful itch in my butt crack–
ninety minutes to go

right after the elevator doors closed
i realized the person who just got off
had farted or shit their pants

right after i starting accompanying the choir
the air conditioner blew the thirty-page Bach cantata
off the organ and into the audience

right after i reached the window
to buy tickets for Springsteen
the lady put up the SOLD OUT sign

right before my baby was finally born
i found out what an episiotomy is

right before i sat down to write this poem
my partner told me my poetry sucks

right before i die
i will wish i could live it all again

You can out sing the rain
resist the rain, sings the cardinal
against a wall of noise
the power of one song

Resist the rain, the cardinal sings
somewhere in all that downpour
a single cardinal defies 
the overwhelming wall of static

Spotify turned off, just rain and the Cardinal
I’m spending time listening 
to the non-digital world
I have my noise cancelling headset off

All that heavy rain
it’s a wall of static noise
from my desk, I can hear the cardinal 
trying to out sing the rain

Blessed be my well-thumbed Thesaurus
Its missing Index of x, y, and z
Random pages tea splattered and ink assaulted
What hours spent on the hunt for the perfect word
Like a bloodhound snuffling quarry  

Blessed also my metal strainer
Handles dearly departed to some scrap heap
Dented and waffle-faced apparatus  
A lifetime of sieving enough spaghetti
To feed all of Italy  

Blessings to my alarm clock
Second hand lying dead on the bottom
Like a discarded silver toothpick
Alarm now just a lover’s whisper
Nibbling my sleepy ear  

And blessed be this spent body
Knees like a rusty gate
Mind a sputtering choke engine
Frayed and graying relic
The ruins of some once-great society  

May we find value in what we are
Not in what we lack
May we, like the sun, rise and give light
Flaring our colors wildly
Before we tuck into darkness  

One mouse
among millions, millet
full & fed up chews
at the plantation’s wainscoting.  

Three others drag
the carving knife
to the crevice.  

The Farmer’s wife better learn to run.

Not with stagecraft or tongue raving
like Pentecostals at Grassy Branch Tabernacle
but like a tightrope walker holding a heron
egg. I learned to talk
to you like a fresh puppy. What’s up
little green? Are you getting out
of the heat, lovely slither bit?
I’d sing, “Don’t be frightened, Mon Chéri,
my little mouse-tooth-honey-cake.”

O treasure, please stretch
your scaly stripes across
the threshold of my thick
garden. If I trample on you,
know I didn’t mean it. Wiggler,
harmless friend, unexpected
pet, you are welcome
company. A living spiral
twisting at the foot of my ragged
trellis.  Here may you
always shimmy free.

Let’s not focus on our selfish desires,
Let’s focus on us,
Let’s focus on our family and our dreams,
Let’s focus on our love for each other,
Let’s focus on our joyous days,
Let’s focus on our blissful nights,
Let’s not let death do us part,
Let’s have our love continue,
To infinity

Never wanting
a spotlight
shining his way
He chose 
behind the scenes
Even at the end
Gathered his family
and then  sent them home
Quietly slipping
away before dawn
Alone
in that hospital bed.

Pine Mountain Cemetery XVIII
            The Two Boys

Tragedy does not have an expiration date.
It comes to us in modern times and lived
Close in times forgotten and long gone by.

Mr. Swafford, principal, tried to comfort against
Such guilt felt by the boy who had shot his gun,
Laughing, playing, chasing like a movie hero.

He was only thirteen, that was the last moment
Of his childhood. Haunted, gray he walked
The halls of life mostly left alone to mourn.

And grieve he did, until that day still yet in
His teens he drove his black truck over
The wildest cliff on the highest road.

Accident they called it, official like, families
Suffered enough, sheriff stopped more.
The boys both lie up here not far apart.

One family left for good, never looked back.
The other stayed, tends both graves, hold their
Bitter memories, never live beyond that day.

When I think of them and what was lost a pain
Wells up and sits by me while I feel the waves
Of hurt spread itself far and wide to everyone.

Yesterday’s news, last week’s misery, hundreds
Of years and more. It won’t end because we hurt,
And so we smile and listen to the poets song.

We will fix what we can and wish for the other.
Tomorrow will give us laughter, anger, grief. I
Hope I know which one holds the most relief.