Here’s to the year about to unfold:
My wish for it is not
to lose 10 pounds
or meditate
or change jobs
or exercise more
or learn Italian
or take a drawing class
or see the British isles
or try to appreciate opera,
or Shakespeare or sushi
or pay better attention
so that I notice she’s dyed her hair,
he’s shaved off his beard,
or any of a thousand other things,
besides hair, that I miss
because I live by distraction
with tiny breaks to remind myself
to breathe–
my wish isn’t even to remember
to breathe
without reminders—-which is so basic
you’d think I’d have mastered it by now—- no,
My wish is this—-
To stop expecting disaster.
I plan to stop planning
for the crises, all flavors,
tomorrow could deliver.
I know things crouch in darkness
and will pounce or be stumbled into
Eventually.
But this is the year I stop counting on them,
stop setting the table with good china for unwelcome guests
and listening for the doorbell as dinner bakes.
When troubles knock,
at least they’ll have to get their own damn dinner.
Resolution
Poetry Birds
Some days I wake as a woman lit up
with impractical plans
for printing off poems
by all my favorite poets,
folding them into origami birds
and traveling through the city
trailing paper birds, all colors,
hiding them in plain sight
for you to find.
Snowstorm Saturday
Still snowing, but my closest neighbor
inside his homemade red and green shack
built on top of his tractor
is plowing his driveway already,
his tiny house protecting him from the wind.
He’s retired now and so has time
to turn his inspirations
into inventions.
All up and down my road,
I can hear the low-roar symphony
of snow blowers. And I’ve got to get out there myself
because I love to shovel snow without any motor at all.
But also, if I don’t hurry, my neighbor and his house
will clear my sidewalk and free my car
And because we’ve been here, side by side, a very long time,
I know he’ll be sitting inside his invention
shaking his head at my indolence
when he sees me through the front window
sipping my coffee, writing away.
And I want to shout Hey, I’m inventing here.
But he’d explain in his fatherly voice,
words on paper don’t count
when there’s snow to be cleared,
and so much practical work to be done.
Efficiency
In work boots and plaid and feed store cap,
he looked like an elderly farmer
next to me in the stationery aisle,
one calm spot in the supermarket rush hour.
He told me he probably owned a thousand pens.
Whenever a new one caught his eye he had to have it.
I smiled and backed away, tired, late getting home,
shopping list lost as usual.
Sometimes I have to be stern with myself:
There wasn’t enough time to stumble
into rambling conversations with eccentric strangers.
But he said he used them all,
nearly shouting as I reached the end of the aisle,
because there was so much to write and draw every day.
Hours later, I haven’t saved any time at all–
still wondering, wishing I could trade this back
for time to wheel my shopping cart closer
and ask him to tell me
what he’s drawing now.
Chill Pill
You need a chill pill
is the pronouncement from my children
when the list in my head
Unravels,
when the sound of my nagging voice
irritates even me.
I picture this make-believe pill
blue and icy–
Swallowed, it would cool down
all the heat inside you
and possibly tint your lips
a calm lavender
so every time you looked in the mirror
your brain would remind you, Chill.
Frost Cinquain
A poem written in response to the latest writing prompt on one of my favorite sites, Poets Online http://poetsonline.org/ Unfortunately, I neglected to notice the expiration date for prompt, which always happens with the contents of my refrigerator too, so I should be used to this by now—
Frost, out walking in his woods
choosing his words and ways
tells us all a poem should
but more than the poet ever could
caught up in his rhyming daze.
Was it, as one teacher said,
a monumental choice?
Or, as another one read,
does it mean we’ll all end up dead
and all paths are the same in the poet’s voice?
Or, as I suspect,
all the difference was the phrase
that caught the poet round the neck,
led him to shuffle the words in his deck
leaving us on this tangled trek, wondering where the truth lays.
Carnival Vitae
I’ve traveled with them for years. I started as a high-wire act. Back then, it was nothing to fly. All I needed was the applause, the appreciative Gasps from tiny faces, far below.
One misstep and that was done. No comparisons to getting back on horses or bicycles could bring me back to that easy dance with risk.
I’ve been the juggler, too. So many balls in the air I could only keep going if I never set one down or counted how many were in the air and always, always kept up a mad caffeine hum.
I’ve been the girl in sequins, holding perfectly still as a man spun me around on a wheel and threw knives and missed by inches, most days.
But now? Jobs are limited for a woman my age. They need a ticket-taker, a fortune-teller, and someone to dip the apples in that red, red candy and wrap them in nuts and plastic to sell with the cotton candy. In another decade or two I’ll only be fit to sweep the peanut shells off the dirt floor.
These are the ringmaster’s offers. Danger free ways to pass the rest of your time here.
Or—
The ringmaster’s eyes flick to the side, to the tent door flapping in a high wind.
Superbowl Party
Whenever I think of moving away, choosing a different life, another thing happens inside this small town. At halftime, the men and boys head back to the kitchen for more chicken wing dip and stromboli and chocolate truffles shaped like tiny footballs. Only the women stay with Beyonce, our mouths hanging open, all of us reminiscing about the year it was Springsteen.
Outside, snow keeps falling hard. And despite the many mistakes I’ve made, this is where I raised my children. So even now, in the middle of the storm, none of us is far from home.
Job Security
There are stacks of paper—
agendas, plans, scores, data
to show we were here.
We sit all day in meetings
mouths moving, hearts failing,
minds spinning frantically, spirits on lockdown
as we carefully step
around each of the thousand truths
clothed as teenagers
who wander the halls
outside our closed door.
Elephants, Lace
Again, this morning ritual
the alarm, the awkward scramble for the snooze button
so I can hurry after the tail of that last dream
before it slips out the window.
But now the door between worlds is drifting open
and I wonder if we need milk or what day it is or remember
an early morning meeting requiring coffee and donuts and what flavor
donuts and the real world
has wound itself around me again, like a cat
rubbing against your ankles.
I try to wake just enough to shoo it away
but it’s too late, that other world is gone again
Except for the certainty that it included elephants
and lace.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 