Today was a good day

Today was a good day.
Smiles,
A kiss,
And a few words.
Sat outside,
Called the tulips beautiful
Said sitting in the fresh air was peaceful.
Watched Chuck Berry videos while waiting for lunch.
For those moments,
She looked like a young child
Delighting in the wonders of
Everything around her.
She looked happy.
And for those moments
I was thankful.
Thankful for a day
That reminded me
Of who she is
And that a part of her is still here.

The bandaid won’t stick

Drip, drip,
The bandaid won’t stick.
Left it on too long.
Need to clean out the wound,
Make it sting
Try to get all the dirt and germs
Out of the sticky mess.
Drip, drip,
The sore reopened.
Because no one
Kept track,
No one
Dared lift the bandage
Afraid it would hurt too much.
And now the hurt is worse
And will be harder to clean
And cure.
Some wounds never fully heal.
This one will definitely leave a scar.

Snoring

Snoring in the other room.
I hope it doesn’t keep me awake.
Something about hearing a 91 year old man
Snoring
That worries me more than annoys me.
A younger man snoring,
Keeps me awake
out of frustration.
An old man snoring,
That keeps me awake
out of fear.
Fear that if he stops snoring
It will mean he’s not breathing.
All I have to do is fall asleep
So I won’t hear it anymore,
And hopefully my snoring
Won’t bother him.
Insert smiley face emoji.

Lost and Found

Presumed missing.
Lost: one mind.
If found,
Keep it.

Querulous is the word of the day

Whining, complaining,
What is the point
Of being querulous?
The more you whine,
The more you complain,
The more the rest of us
Try to avoid you,
And the less we respect you.
So, if you’re doing it for attention,
It’s going to backfire.
Instead of querulous,
Try being gracious and good natured
And see what happens.
If that’s too big of a leap,
Try the middle ground,
Stoic, patient, tolerant.
Without whining and complaining,
Of course.

The Music In My Head

The music in my head
Rarely stops.
I’m pretty sure it continues
Even when I’m asleep.

The music in my head.
I wonder,
if I’m sleeping,
is it really there?

The music in my head
Provides comic relief.
Provides a place to escape to when things are tough.
Provides a constant in my life.

The music in my head
sometimes leaks out.
I hum, I sing.
I tap my feet
to the rhythm that only I feel.

Is that normal?
Do I care?

Another Day at the Library

Just three guys,
sitting around a table at the library.
Reading newspapers,
Talking about the news,
Talking about the weather.
Just hanging out.
Reading, talking, laughing,
and chatting up the librarian,
Who makes it a point,
to walk by their table,
just to say hello,
And usually winds up staying
a little longer
than she meant to.

One More Song

Working on a song list
Of songs sung by women.
Getting sick of singing
About sweethearts,
And babies who left me.
I don’t have a sweetheart.
I’m over the baby leaving me,
And there is more to life than being coupled.
At least I hope there is.

My Mother is Dying

My mother is dying
And some days I obsess about it.
Other days it hardly enters my mind.
Slow.
Too slow.
Agonizing to witness,
Agonizing to be a remote part of,
Calling and visiting when i can.
And then I think it’s too fast.
We thought we were ready,
After all she was almost 90.
But it still happened too fast.
One day,
Her mind was mostly there,
The next day it was gone.
Sometimes it comes back
For a minute or two.
If we’re lucky, more.
And then she disappears again.
And we walk the fine line
Between wishing she could just go to sleep
Forever
And be fully at peace.
And hating ourselves for wishing that.
Selfish? Love?
Unconditional ties that bind,
Hoping they won’t be broken.
My mother is dying
And part of me is dying with her.
And part of me is growing in ways
That I wish she could see.

I Had a Thought

Hold onto that thought.
While I get the file open.
Easier said than done.
Thoughts can sometimes be like a feather
Caught by a gust of wind,
Floating out of your grasp,
Just when you think you can grab it.

Other times, they are like a brick
Sinking to the bottom of a pond,
You know it’s there
But you can’t reach it
So it dies.

Then there are the thoughts
That pop
Like a balloon
You can pick up the fragments
But it will never be whole
Again.

Entitled, empathetic, clueless

Inspired by a news story about a black legislator who called Barbara Bush racist. I didn’t necessarily like her politics or her husband, but I admired Barbara Bush. And at first glance, I was offended by the legislator’s remark. But then I thought about it, woke up the next morning, and this poem came out.

Hey white people,
What right do you have to respond
to a black person calling someone a racist?
And before you start calling me names,
or making judgements about my parentage
or social or political background,
I am white, too.
And I have finally realized
that just because I think a white person
isn’t saying or doing something racist,
I am not the person being offended.
And there is no way I can ever fully put myself in their shoes.
I am white,
There is no way I can understand racism based on skin color.
I am, however, aware of how comments, body language, and actions
can hurt.
How words and behavior can be chosen deliberately
yo taunt, to put down, to put me in my place.
Prejudice based on religion,
Based on age,
Based on sex.
Sex and age are visible.
Religion is not.
As bad as those hurt,
as obvious as those barbs and taunts sometimes are,
They still aren’t
as frightening
and pervasive
as racism,
Skin color.
So, I will ask again,
If you are not black
who are you to judge when a Black person
calls a non-black person
Racist?
Who are you to judge when a Hispanic or Latina person
calls a non-Hispanic/Latina person
Racist?
If you aren’t in their skin,
As much as you can empathize,
You can’t ever fully know
the fear,
the shame,
the pride,
The extent to which racism exists.

That Moment when you realize

I used to think twice, maybe three times before posting anything I thought might upset the person (or family of said person) that inspired a poem. But now I am realizing that I have the right to post whatever I write and whatever I feel comfortable posting. So, if I am good with it, that is all that matters. Selfish? Maybe. Maybe not. First of all, almost no one reads my blog so almost no one will see it. Second of all, the person it may or may not have been inspired by probably is not going to read it. The family of any such person is probably not going to read it. And if someone reads it and thinks it is related to him/her and is offended or taken aback then maybe they need to reflect on their words and actions and not blame the messenger. I don’t name names. I don’t name places. I don’t give details of circumstances. I write based on personal experience as well as experiences others have related to me, fiction books where a thought or phrase grabs me, non fiction, news stories, overheard conversations, observations. Nothing I write is 100% about anyone, except maybe me. So, if someone feels maligned, maybe the truth hurts.

That moment when you realize
that
this person is an asshole
and is never going to change.
No matter how much
you wish it were so,
it isn’t.
That moment when
you finally walk away
for good,
And it feels like a huge weight
has been lifted off your heart.
And your mind and spirit
feel like
they are young and hopeful
and open to love
for real.
Because what you had wasn’t
Love.
It was one-sided
and you need it all.
You deserve to have
the real thing.

Two for One

Morning Poem

Remember when you were a kid
And you watched your father shaving
And wished you could too,
but you were a girl?
Thanks to age and hormones,
Your time may have come.

Evening Poem

How about something deeper?
Why.
What is wrong with writing a poem
that doesn’t explore the meaning of life,
the lessons of love,
the angst that comes and goes?
What is wrong with writing a poem
that doesn’t intentionally say anything deep?
A poem that is light,
contains some humor,
Maybe a little irony.
And the simplicity of the words and subject
Stand on their own,
Evoke an image,
Create a feeling,
Maybe encourage a chuckle.
Not written to be deep
But powerful, nonetheless.
Answer:
There is nothing wrong with
having fun
with words.
Creative writing doesn’t equal soul searching.
Besides, deep is relative.

Freedom - profound thought of the day

Tonight’s profound thought. 😃

Freedom is knowing
that you get to set your own goals
and you get to make the rules.
That is, if you want to have rules.

Happy?

You asked me
Are you happy?
Yes, I said.
I asked you the same question
And you gave the same answer.
I wonder now,
Was either one of us
Telling the truth?

Since I’ve been gone

Inspired by “I Dreamed Again” by Anne Michaels, and influenced at the end by “The Little Red Hen.” It needs editing, as do most things I write in under 15 minutes.

Since I’ve been gone,
I have begun to sing again,
I read more books,
I watch less tv,
I walk more,
I hike more,
I sleep more,
I smile more.

Since I’ve been gone
From you,
I have been solitary,
I have sung loudly and danced around
In public,
I have found a coffee shop
where I have been writing
Writing in a journal
Writing poetry
I have been creative.

Since you moved and I didn’t go with you,
I have lived more simply,
I have missed the warmth of a body next to mine
I have missed daily conversation
I have missed physical contact.
I have not missed the cold I felt
In the twilight of our time together,
I have not missed when the darkness fell
And our life together splintered
And the divide depeened.

Since I’ve been gone,
I have grown,
I have lived.
I have learned again to love
Myself
And to trust
Myself
I have learned how to move on
Pick up the pieces of my heart
And soul
And build a new mosaic.

Since I’ve been gone,
I have found a new way to live
And I am no longer gone,
I am traveling
Yet I feel like I have arrived.

Who needs WiFi?

In the basement of an old building. Internet connection comes and goes. For now, it’s here so I can post this.

Oh no!
I can’t get onto the internet.
My life as I know it
Is being put on hold.
No way to communicate
With cyber friends and family.
Feel helpless without
A way to access email
And Facebook
And surf the net.
Time to go for a walk
Or read a book
Or maybe even have a conversation
With a real live person
In person,
Using my mouth to speak
And my ears to listen
Rather than my fingers typing
And my eyes reading.
Is that body language I see?
And vocal inflections that I hear?
So much attitude.
So human.
Please touch me
Just to prove this is real.
Feeling hopeful rather than helpless,
Maybe I should do this more often.

Tornado Watch

Tornado watch,
I can hear the wind.
The clock reads 11:50
with the PM light on.
Sleep is important,
But the wind gusts
are distracting
and worrisome.
Oh, I do wish
that instead of listening to the wind,
waiting for the rain,
and worrying about what could happen,
I wish that I could watch a tornado
without running the risk
of getting hurt.
More immediately
I wish I could peacefully sleep
and not hear the windows rattle.

No words

Two days of creative drought,
No thoughts leaked out of my head,
No torrent of words onto paper,
Nothing.
So now I will try to
write about it,
Since I still haven’t
had an epiphany.

Night-time writing

I write to get thoughts out of my head
So I can go to bed.
Purge the venom from my brain
So creativity will have room
To expand.
A better rhyme would have been nice
But too much perfection
Can sound trite.

Wise words

If you know what is real
You have nothing to prove.

Even though

Mom guilt sticks with me and pushes through my conscience at the oddest times.

Even though
Someone gets hurt in the process,
I’m okay with making mistakes.
Despite the pain,
In the end,
An understanding is reached,
I learn something I needed to know.
Even if it pushes us apart,
At some point,
The resolution
Brings us closer.
We hurt,
We grow,
We heal,
Our bond is stronger.
Mistakes can hurt
And if we talk about it
Together
Mistakes can be good.

Grand Canyon

Created a canyon,
Too wide to jump across,
Too steep to climb down,
Too deep to jump in.
So now what do you do?
Walk it back.
Retrace your path.
Find another way around.
Except,
You can’t take back
Your words.
And the long way around
May take too long,
And you can’t afford to be late.

Haikus about writing

I signed up to do Camp NaNo. My goal is to take the poems I’ve written since July 2017, edit as many of them as I can, and try to see if they can be put in theme groups. I decided that would all be easier to do if I printed them. My progress, so far, is slooooooow.

Writing assignments
scare my creativity
away. I hate that.

Being told to write
Takes the fun out of it and
Slows down the word flow.

Supporting Cast

This one needs a lot of work. But I wanted to post it just in case the editing doesn’t happen soon.

The squeaky wheel gets the grease.
The star gets the spotlight.
The boss gets the credit.
The winner gets the medal and the headline.

Those who plug along
Do their job
Day in, day out,
Get a paycheck, maybe,
And maybe the glory of knowing
What they have accomplished.

In the shadows,
All that matters is
How you feel about yourself
Not accolades from others.

Forget the squeaky wheel,
The star,
The boss,
The winner.
Most of us are the supporting cast,
And without us,
No one shines.