Each night I lull myself to sleep,
mentally arranging virtual blocks,
tasks to be done tomorrow,
plans for a more productive future.
They form a comforting wall,
protecting me
from the reality of
so many things
left undone
each day.
Plans for today:
Get up at 9.
Check
Feed the cat, light a fire, make the bed.
Check
Pray for a minute, give thanks, ask for guidance.
Check
Play with my phone, solve Wordle in 3.
Check
Drink water, a smoothie, coffee.
Check
Clean the bathroom.
Nah
Write a poem about not cleaning the bathroom.
Check.
I trudge through a field
under a grey winter sky
looking for unharvested sustenance
among the bare stalks of last season’s crops
while the dark shadow of Death
lurks behind the tree line
He opened his roster a few years ago
and pointed to my name
I thought it would be much later
if at all
Now he toys with me
taking those I love instead
coming closer
then receding
inviting me to his joyless dance
Pretending not to see him
I navigate the patches of snow and mud
hoping to find a persimmon tree
or another sunrise.
“Why do they have so many children?
They can’t even support themselves!”
I know why! I know!
Anthropologists say they’re repopulating the tribe,
hedging against child mortality.
It’s the persistence of life.
Yeah, yeah, true as far as it goes.
But there’s another reason why
a devastated people don’t want
the pills from the clinic.
It’s more personal:
the children are the joy bringers.
They shriek and giggle,
run around and love fully.
They are silly and cute
and unpredictably funny.
With them, the elder ones laugh
from deep in their bellies.
Without them,
their wry laughs
are brittle as late autumn leaves.
Never walk away from children
or injustice
those are exceptions
to the power of leaving well enough alone
So very often though
coming back later or not at all
is the best thing
the wisest thing
leaving our subconscious to sort it out
or to reap a reprieve only time can deliver
Miraculous isn’t it
how that quiet space can
diffuse arguments
solve puzzles
find lost items
remember a word or a name
neutralize toxicity
finish a poem
We became friends
meeting for tea
talking for hours
She liked every kind of music
except Chinese wedding flute
which she said was
too nasally
I shared about my mom
who was 94
and owned a Chinese wedding flute
how life without her
was unimaginable
but inevitable
I’d like to meet her
my friend said
so when she does pass
I’ll know who you lost
This woman
beautiful and fierce
has endured the grief
of ten lifetimes.
She’s chosen you.
Be proud and afraid.
This will not be easy.
First, no trifling,
no games to prove you have options.
None will be better than her,
so grow up.
Fast.
You’re in the big leagues now.
She wants what you have to give:
strength
tenderness
respect
vulnerability.
She has all this and more for you,
in great measure.
She’s been waiting for you
far too long,
so be patient.
Bring it all
with an open heart
and she’ll meet you there.
The latest poem was hit by oncoming traffic
and the page is littered with the pieces.
Similes lie broken on their sides.
A long metaphor, twisted beyond recognition,
has landed near red shards of description.
There are entire stanzas which make no sense.
They held promise but fell back to earth as banal musings,
trite conclusions and subjects not suited for poetry.
The poet has crawled from the wreckage,
her future uncertain.
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