Some Days


I wanted to write about
enormous untouchable glorious skies,
and bluebell music echoing over
mossy green canyon valleys,
The crackling fires we built in the woods,
my boy running through the river with the neighbor’s dog,
and sloshing in warm January mud,
happy to be sinking deeper and deeper
Where the snails of last summer were buried.

But none of that was going anywhere.
It was just an ordinary Monday and
I was breathing sooty train station air
Elbowing my way through revolving doors,
Plugging overtired brain into sales reports.
The well-dressed man in the elevator
Filled each space between the 24 floors
Perfecting his visibly perfect scarf
He leaned so close into the glossy steel
I got nervous he’d fall in.

I cannot not write any of this, I mumbled madly.
So I grabbed a plastic bowl for lunch
And sat by the Chicago river with my spicy rice.
Billy came by and plopped next to me.
Those countless paths around his eyes
Some pointing to the skies, some to the earth
Yet all beautifully converging in one vision.
We leaned our heads against the rusty railing
Looking up seven cement overhangs
As the shimmering river danced on each one.

I cannot write about this, Billy, I blurted out,
Maybe it is just something in me, composting,
And the molds still have enough food to chew on
So they do not spread the spores
In the wind, and I have to wait
for this composting to be done
For the process to play itself out…

Look!, said Billy, pointing at
The security man slowly dragging
yellow warning cone and dropping it
on a wobbly sidewalk block.

No, I cannot write this, I continued,
This poetry on the buses
And this poetry on billboards
Or about being as old as cheerios
And the girls giggling on the corner
Or what a homeless cat thinks
And buildings with faces blown off…

Billy lifted his foot
Twisted his shoe to the left and to the right
adoring the shadows and brightness of the sun,
Clapped his hands on his knees, rising,
Bugs Bunny is my muse, he said.
And walked away to feed the pigeons.


Inspired by Billy Collins and his poems put to cartoons



About BeeHappee

Where have all the bees gone? Where have all the flowers gone?
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18 Responses to Some Days

  1. noblethemes says:

    Interesting and a bit comical. It brought a smile to my face and a chuckle to my heart. Well done! 🙂

  2. Michael says:

    Well I’m glad you do write like this, Kristina! I loved the opening scenes, and how the ordinary day then grabbed hold of you. Was it really ordinary? I loved the echoes of the river in the overhangs– could see the fingerprints of the waves. I loved the image of your boy sloshing in January mud. I love how it all found its way to you…


    • BeeHappee says:

      Thank you for noticing those details, Michael, and rephrasing better than I could – the fingerprints of the waves. Thank you for inspiring with Hafiz magic, and so on seemingly ordinary days, there is always Hafiz, or Billy Collins, maybe a poem in a book, in a tree, or on a billboard, perhaps fingerprints of the waves, and, ultimately, ourselves, who save the day.

  3. What a wonderful story, Bee. This is a kind of poetry (is it that?) that I can understand.
    Billy is a wise man and I so love that picture! Those tools, the history they have, the life they represent and the meaning they have….. at least to me.

    • BeeHappee says:

      I am glad you enjoyed this one, Ron. You would like Billy Collins then, he has an incredible ability to pick out and point out gems and extraordinary in seemingly ordinary moments.
      The tools, yes, it looks a little bit like my grandpa’s workshop.

  4. Walking My Path: Mindful Wanderings in Nature says:

    I love how what you “couldn’t write about” came to us with beautiful imagery. The film was funny. I love your writing KristinaBee.

  5. twainausten says:

    I really like this poem. You’re in Chicago? Love Chicago. The first place I ever travelled on my own.

  6. shoreacres says:

    The photo reminds me of my grandfather’s workshop. it was an old, ramshackle building out behind the house — perhaps far enough away that he could get away from Grandma, and claim with some honesty that he didn’t hear her calling.

    Billy Collins is such a treasure. I don’t respond to all of his poems, but his thoughts on writing and the creative process are immensely cheering. I’m one who likes to say that “everything counts,” and in his poetry, he makes that abstract assertion concrete, in the most beautiful ways. That’s what you’ve done here, too — in the very process of saying, “I can’t.”

    • BeeHappee says:

      Thank you, Linda. I appreciate your kind words, coming from such a talented writer it means a lot to me.
      My grandpa’s workshop was just like that too with a couple large workbenches and vices. It was connected to the hay barn, so the combined smell of wood shaving and hay was heavenly. I lived in the often. 🙂

  7. Hariod Brawn says:

    This is rather lovely Kristina, the idea – if I understand your words correctly – of finding encouragement, and a freeing of our occasional creative shackles, in imaginary friends.

    • BeeHappee says:

      Thank you. Imaginary friends indeed are fun and helpful providing the third eye when we get stuck in a quackmire of stories, emotions, or roadblocks. I think my main impetus for this one was to remind myself that extraordinary is everywhere. I am not sure if you are familiar with the poetry of Billy Collins, but he takes very simple things, like himself sitting in a simple diner ordering his breakfast and reading a newspaper, when he suddenly reads that Cheerios were first produced same year he was born. So he writes a poem about being as old as Cheerios. Little things suddenly become quite magical. I was having a boring Monday going to work after a wonderful weekend of playing with kids out in the woods, and I really did not want to be in the city, so I had to ‘talk’ to Billy to give me some peace of mind. 🙂

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