Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off

Where you see a vine, I see the flight path of a pair of leaves.

Where you hear pizzicato violins, I hear all the angels of time whispering stop.

Where you pause for breath, I swallow audibly.

Where you exercise one or more rights, I give love a bad name: to wit, You.

Where you invest in gold, I save water & fingernails.

Where you climb a hill, I let my feet take me home.

Where you descend, I stare into my shoes as if they were mirrors.

Where you read Terms of Service, I read Dream at Your Own Risk.

Where you see the letter A, I see a window pretending to be a door.

Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave’s writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

4 Replies to “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off”

  1. Well, there is the other option. Get married and argue for the rest of your lives. Trouble is, I see myself equally represented on both sides of the yin yang poem. (grin)

    Taken politically.. this might be a metaphor for congress. Arrrrgh!

    Seriously..I enjoyed this poem immensely. One hopes for a melding of views somehow…

  2. Where you see a vine, I see the flight path of a pair of leaves.


    Giving up on giving up is a better choice,
    when being sensible and clear are futile.
    Words would lose meaning, ours will not.

    Where you see a vine leading its tendrils
    up to a broken branch shedding a last leaf,
    you make me see its undulant plummet

    to the parched pond mottled by blackened
    and brittle leaves long dead even before
    the end of this long hot summer. It is real.

    Is this not our faultless way of knowing
    what we pretend to know when we can
    no longer see the dancer from the dance?

    Would not the falling of that lonely leaf
    trace the slower climb of a clinging vine?
    Like seeing both sides of the wall at once.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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