Poems For 7 Fuse

Mr.
Nobody
BY ANONYMOUS
I know a funny little man,

As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
In everybody’s house!
There’s no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr. Nobody.
’Tis he who always tears out books,

Who leaves the door ajar,
He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
And scatters pins afar;
That squeaking door will always squeak,
For prithee, don’t you see,
We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. Nobody.
He puts damp wood upon the fire

That kettles cannot boil;
His are the feet that bring in mud,
And all the carpets soil.
The papers always are mislaid;
Who had them last, but he?
There’s no one tosses them about
But Mr. Nobody.
The finger marks upon the door

By none of us are made;
We never leave the blinds unclosed,
To let the curtains fade.
The ink we never spill; the boots
That lying round you see
Are not our boots,—they all belong
To Mr. Nobody.
I Am Offering this Poem
BY JIMMY SANTIAGO BACA
I am offering this poem to you,

since I have nothing else to give.
Keep it like a warm coat
when winter comes to cover you,
or like a pair of thick socks
the cold cannot bite through,
I love you,
I have nothing else to give you,

so it is a pot full of yellow corn
to warm your belly in winter,
it is a scarf for your head, to wear
over your hair, to tie up around your face,
I love you,
Keep it, treasure this as you would

if you were lost, needing direction,
in the wilderness life becomes when mature;
and in the corner of your drawer,
tucked away like a cabin or hogan
in dense trees, come knocking,
and I will answer, give you directions,
and let you warm yourself by this fire,
rest by this fire, and make you feel safe
I love you,
It’s all I have to give,

and all anyone needs to live,
and to go on living inside,
when the world outside
no longer cares if you live or die;
remember,
I love you.
Kindness
Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952
Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the
regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness you must travel where the
Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed
through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow
as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you
see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties
your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say.
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.
The Ultimate - Poem by David Berman
When dreams have turned to dust and dust to

slime;
When all you ever were or hoped to be
Appears as no more than a jest of time,
A foolish jest, a tasteless parody
On some unlikely fiction; when not just

Your dear pretensions but your best ideals
Have been ground down into an acrid dust
That you are forced to eat for all your meals;
When—oh, but what can metaphor provide

Sufficient in its scope to comprehend
The fury never to be satisfied
Of one betrayed by a once-trusted friend?
Snow - Poem by David Berman
Walking through a field with my little brother Seth
I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow.

For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels
had been shot and dissolved when they hit the ground.
He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer.
Then we were on the roof of the lake.

The ice looked like a photograph of water.
Why he asked. Why did he shoot them.
I didn't know where I was going with this.
They were on his property, I said.
When it's snowing, the outdoors seem like a room.
Today I traded hellos with my neighbor.

Our voices hung close in the new acoustics.
A room with the walls blasted to shreds and falling.
We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence.
But why were they on his property, he asked.

The Moon - Poem by David Berma
A web of sewer, pipe, and wire connects each house to the others.
In 206 a dog sleeps by the stove where a small gas leak causes him
to have visions; visions that are rooted in nothing but gas.
Next door, a man who has decided to buy a car part by part
excitedly unpacks a wheel and an ashtray.
He arranges them every which way. It’s really beginning to take

shape.
Out the garage window he sees a group of ugly children

enter the forest. Their mouths look like coin slots.
A neighbor plays keyboards in a local cover band.

Preparing for an engagement at the high school prom,
they pack their equipment in silence.
Last night they played the Police Academy Ball and

all the officers slow-danced with target range silhouettes.
This year the theme for the prom is the Tetragrammaton.
A yellow Corsair sails through the disco parking lot

and swaying palms presage the lot of young libertines.
Inside the car a young lady wears a corsage of bullet-sized rodents.

Her date, the handsome cornerback, stretches his talons over the
molded steering wheel.
They park and walk into the lush starlit gardens behind the disco
just as the band is striking up.
Their keen eyes and ears twitch. The other couples

look beautiful tonight. They stroll around listening
to the brilliant conversation. The passionate speeches.
Clouds drift across the silverware. There is red larkspur,

blue gum, and ivy. A boy kneels before his date.
And the moon, I forgot to mention the moon.

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Mr.

I know a funny little man,

’Tis he who always tears out books,

He puts damp wood upon the fire

The finger marks upon the door

I am offering this poem to you,

I have nothing else to give you,

Keep it, treasure this as you would

It’s all I have to give,

When dreams have turned to dust and dust to

On some unlikely fiction; when not just

When—oh, but what can metaphor provide

I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow.

He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer.

Then we were on the roof of the lake.

Why he asked. Why did he shoot them.

I didn't know where I was going with this.

They were on his property, I said.

When it's snowing, the outdoors seem like a room.

Today I traded hellos with my neighbor.

We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence.

But why were they on his property, he asked.

He arranges them every which way. It’s really beginning to take

Out the garage window he sees a group of ugly children

A neighbor plays keyboards in a local cover band.

they pack their equipment in silence.

Last night they played the Police Academy Ball and

This year the theme for the prom is the Tetragrammaton.

A yellow Corsair sails through the disco parking lot

Inside the car a young lady wears a corsage of bullet-sized rodents.

Their keen eyes and ears twitch. The other couples

Clouds drift across the silverware. There is red larkspur,

And the moon, I forgot to mention the moon.

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