I had five poems left to write, and I stalled. It wasn’t just the poems. It was everything. Lately I’ve been having more trouble than I’d like to admit making time. It’s not just the scarcity of minutes of the day; It’s more than that. This voice has been creeping in, asking me what the hell I think I’m doing working for all these years–for what?! It may have something to do with the fact that my doctor put me on high blood pressure medicine. This knocked me for a loop, because I eat healthy and exercise and avoid processed foods, which means that it is probably stress, which I have to admit I’ve been living off forever.
This sent me into one of those who do you think are/what makes you think you’re a writer phases. I was giving some advice I needed to another writer Saturday when my own advice smacked me right back–Do you hear yourself, dummy? I was reminding this other writer that we write because we have to, because we love it, because through the act of writing we discover and explore what we think and believe. We strengthen our vision, our empathy, our ability to appreciate the beauty of art and practice. So, on Mother’s Day,I sat in a reclining lawn chair on my front porch and busted out the rest of the poems for April. So, here they are. I hope you’ll write along with me in April 2024!
Keep making time, peeps. Even when you are writing through the muck of doubt and despair. You deserve this. You are enough.
while we just get through the days.
A chorus of I-love-yous maybe can’t make up
for the times I focused on the ways you don’t,
the days you soloed through my loneliness.
So, I am grateful for moments of attunement,
where we take the time to listen,
call and response,
until we’re one instrument for a while.
Sometimes I go to the bookstore and only
look at the staff picks,
read the little cards of each.
I love best when they are handwritten, signed.
It will change you.
What a peace I feel to be
in a world or people longing
to be changed by books.
Ode to Monday
Sometime around the time
masks started coming off,
I resolved to reframe you.
To be going back to work and still
beating out the old refrain–”Well, it’s Monday”–
As if Mondays aren’t perfect days
for laughing, falling in love,
breaking the rules.
So, we’ve arrived, another season of sun–
the ch-ch-ch of sprinklers, time
to play, open the door,
walk out in wonder,
flow like a river, blue-green.
It’s okay to spin your wheels.
I spent entire summers on wheels
riding the entiere stay of each day’s sun.
I remember you, eyes blue-green,
the way you mocked time.
Did you ever wonder–
as I did–what was behind that door?
One summer can be a door.
Fires within fires; wheels within wheels.
Every day, chasing wonder–
fever-pitch with each returning sun–
believing there will be time.
Whole day spent listening to one CD, feeling blue-green.
I had this sun dress, blue-green
that I wore when I walked out the door
knowing, even then, I would not be home on time.
We had wheels!
And even after dark, the sun
glowed with our insistent wonder.
We made sandwiches out of Wonder–
hah! Took them to the lake, blue-green,
lounged on towels in the sun,
our hearts–wide open doors.
We would locate a feeling, spin it like a wheel,
round and round again, frozen in time.
Summer has its own rules regarding time.
Hopping from wonder to wonder,
letting loose the wheels.
Heart–aimed at blue-green.
Flinging wide the doors.
Long days spent half-naked in the sun.
A blown dandelion
Tulip that lost it’s petals
One day–a big gorgeous poppy–
the next day gone.
There are many ways I could respond
to the fact of a lifespan.
I choose kisses,
I’ve hit the phase of motherhood
where unless disaster is for certain
all I am called to do is
from the sidelines
offer humble guidance
Lilacs brag, fragrant.
Dliecate. Plentiful. Boom!
Bloom babies, Oh-bloom!
Sweat behind knees,
no matter how much coffee drank–
on the verge of nap.
Standardize this, man!
Who even still thinks this is
not oppressive AF?!
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Some past posts to keep you making time: