Breathe
is the prescription
when all my cords are frayed
from being wound so tightly
and I no longer remember
how to,
when clearly there is
Absolutely
No
Time
for a refresher course,
busy as I am
in this hectic, important life.
But that tiny part of me
that is not insane,
not addicted to the word
frenzy
Calmly writes this cure
in the margins of novels
I want to read this summer,
writes it across the top
of the dusty picnic table
waiting in the yard,
writes it in sunscreen and lemonade
across the wide lawn
till it meets the trees.
Category Archives: Learning
Unplugged
My Work In This World
My work in this world
wanders its cities in two bodies,
his, hers, once mine.
Bodies given, year by year,
all I knew of patience,
kindness, how a sense
of humor eases the rough patches.
But also captive witnesses to all
I knew of frustration, grief, anger.
Everything I had to offer
carried like a package inside their
own true selves.
And they go traveling
Half-formed and half-dressed
never bothering with a warm coat
determined not to shiver
and admit their mother was right.
They set off into this world that
will please and praise and batter them.
I chase them down the street,
waving mittens and advice, calling out,
Wait, there’s one more thing I forgot to tell you.
Morning Drive Time Zen
Farmers drive muddy tractors
along the highway, hauling
disc harrows and cultivators
to break up the hard dirt
of fields frozen all winter.
In equipment not meant
for paved roads, they drive
slow and rickety.
Their students follow
in a long line of cars,
drivers late for work, learning
to appreciate the sunlight
as it falls across the wooded
hills lit bright green again
past dark fields waiting
for the plow.
All together now, hills,
fields, farmers, commuters,
Practicing patience
or not.
My Father Forgets
Poems happen quick
then get lost in the rushed
onslaught of a day and
I’ve gotten enough practice
to be able to (sometimes) see a poem
as it moves past me, as it pauses and my attention
glazes to the world around me for a breath and
the poem might as well be waving a white sign
that says, I Am A Poem in big blocky letters
because it’s that obvious. So some days
I get fooled into believing I’ll remember it.
But that’s not the way of a poem.
So here I am, hours later, frustrated,
tapping my forehead like my father does
when he can’t remember a name, as if tapping
might dislodge that name or this
poem and tumble them into our waiting hands.
But They Don’t Come Back.
Gone Is Gone. So pay attention and
take good notes or you’ll be left playing
with whatever words are lying around when
your actual subject has gone
wherever all those names go when my father forgets
and you’ll be left with no poem at all
like me, today.
Questions Who Go Out Searching For Answers
knock on doors in early morning
when the sky is the same gray as
mourning doves who love this hour
and the questions stop to talk
to any sleepy soul in rumpled pajamas
who answers the door and the questions
Ask, Which takes longer, to
pay bills or write a poem
dress for work or write a poem
pack lunch or write a poem
?
Plenty of smart, well-rested people
don’t answer the door so early.
Those awake are no wiser than
their sleeping, dreaming neighbors.
None of us knows the answer.
But here’s the new plan: Next time
the questions knock, let’s turn
their quizzical selves right back around,
grab our shoes and say we don’t know
but we’ll be happy to keep them company
while they walk.
Abandoned
Here in this school
of bullies, prom queens,
ordinary kids still dazed by life,
and tragedies, both true and
imagined by fourteen-year-old girls,
Abandoned is the saddest story.
Here in this school
where we struggle with
grades and prom night,
illiteracy, the big game,
pregnant teens and faculty evaluations
his head with his floppy clean hair
is filled with where to sleep tonight.
Here in this school
where bells tell us when to
switch from chemistry to symbolism in
Shakespeare, forty-one minutes
to pack it neatly into uninterested minds
behind his shy, scraggly smile
he is learning about existence in a vacuum.
Here in this school
homeless, but not aimless,
he studies hard the art of absence
practicing how to disappear.
He is barely visible by the time we
remember to teach him this:
Every Body gets a space in this world
and people to notice them in it.
Talkable
You won’t be good at living alone,
my son tells me, because
you are too talkable,
his word combining
talkative and sociable.
And I am.
Talkable
describes me, plunging
into any conversation,
dipping my toes, paddling around,
always these same waters.
Now scared but almost ready
for the hidden pool
behind the waterfall
where the surface is still
and I am able
but do not talk.
Casting Spells
In that moment I glanced away, some witch cast a spell on my children. I remember one golden flash of light. I blinked against the dazzle while they grew tall and secretive, lean with a hunger to be Away. Now there are whole days when they are strangers, sweet or surly, prowling this world we shared, looking for a way out.
What else can I do but study every spell I find? With luck and diligence, and so much time now that I’ve worked myself out of this job, each day is patched together with spells I cast myself. They are listed in the book we all received, along with Dr. Spock in his serious dark cover. The other book at every baby shower is Spells For Moms, with teething, tantrums, and chicken pox full of notes in the margin, recipes adjusted to taste. But now I’ve reached the back of the book, with all its untested spells. One marked Acceptance, another called New Chapters Blossom Like Wild Violets. And the last spell, the one I practice every day, titled Good Fortune For Their Roads.
Everyone, Your Homework
is: Loosen your stingy heart
that keeps you strangled
barely breathing
telling your self No
all day long.
Give yourself the big gift of
What you Really Want. Heart’s desire.
It might be something simple
like letting yourself
assign homework to the whole world.
Window shop the whole earth
for the gift that brings
mysterious smiles at two p.m.
and makes you leap
into each morning
eager for more.
You’ll know when you find it, whatever
makes you feel like
these poems feel to me—
Something bountiful and wise
Tugging your brain through
crowded fields of weeks.
And if that’s too big, too generous,
start small. Stop in the middle of the field.
Make believe your heart’s desires are
bright red berries you gather
growing close to the ground
hidden by real leaves.
beyond
At that age, I wondered about
God’s last name
and why swinging high
made your stomach drop
and why that felt so good.
And about the edge of the universe.
If everything has an edge, I reasoned,
Then out there, beyond the moon,
beyond the galaxies,
there must be plywood joists,
propping up the scenery
at the edge of everything.
Beyond that backdrop,
the scent of fresh-cut wood,
plain floor littered with
sawdust and crumpled gum wrappers
and beyond that—
This was how I learned my mind
could feel like swinging high.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 