i’m the one who can’t sit still
whose lazy days are always filled
with activities to keep at bay
every moment of every day
why do i work so hard, so long?
to answer my internal song
my mother’s steadfastness asks
only that i complete my tasks.
for all my life i’ll be her child
walking door to door, mile to mile
i’m the one who can’t sit still
without busy-ness, my life’s not filled.
how can i say
exactly what’s keeping me from you
when i’m not so sure myself?
if you could see my mind
spinning on its axis
like a planet gone off course,
you might understand.
i know, i know,
i am the one with my fingertip
on the axis, i should stop it.
it is fear that keeps it spinning,
fear and frustration
and the pulling of the moon,
the moon i’m afraid i’ll never reach.
some shop for the latest fashion
some shop for gems and jewels
i shop for the gems and jewels
of harvest,
choosing with a critical eye
only the latest, greatest styles:
heirloom potatoes
that melt in my mouth like
smooth cream,
zucchini longer than my forearm
to be chopped and diced
and catapulted into recipes,
red bell peppers to top
hand-tossed, homemade pizza,
tomatoes perfectly plump
to sauce up our lives,
peaches for pies and jams,
carrots (cheap and easy)
to fill the girls’ lunch sacks,
and apples.
apples of every variety,
their taste carrying me through the year,
their travels from the
western slope
filling my bag, basket, bushel
until i work with them
two days straight,
coring, cutting, cooking, canning,
jars of applesauce, apple butter
making the house smell
like a cinnamon dream,
lined up on the shelf:
the shiniest, most fashionable
gems and jewels
of golden red
to decorate my style.
he is five like her
reaches to hold her hand
offers her bits of his lunch
and asks why
there are no dinosaurs on Mars
a moment after asking
what’s a planet?
he’s never been here before
nor read a book about Mars
or planets
doesn’t know what i mean
when i say, let’s visit this exhibit
i watch them chase each other
up and down escalators
she a little mixture of bossy, shy,
him thrilled and ever-curious,
and i think
how different their wealth of knowledge
must be,
how unaware they are
of each other’s differences.
hovering over the highway
gray clouds attempt to rain
in a swirl of condensation
they reach down toward earth.
i watch the gas gauge hover on empty
as the rain stays high
unable to bring relief
to a guzzling, thirsty world.
we make it home and i promise
not to drive this van for a week
just as everyone posts complaints
about the football game.
it is stuttered like the rain
unable to fall, unable to win,
so close to what we can see
but in our ignorance can’t reach.
i drank too much
and learned that i can fit
a day’s worth of clothes
a bungee cord
a pair of gloves
an oversized computer cord
a MacBook
and a six-pack of vanilla porter
in my saddle bag
(though the bike will tip if i let go).
this is a list poem
so let me add
that with the shower
the lack of wash cloths
and the realization
that towels were in the dryer,
he and i shared a single hand towel
to dry our dripping skin,
got out the exercise ball
and had us a real ball
(punny, right? it was.)
what could i fit in a Friday?
a five a.m. bike ride
seven classes
three 200-hundred-word posts
a happy two hours
with five friends at the bar
finishing my latest novel
dinner with my family
and love with my husband.
i heard what happened
in a roundabout way
as all families today,
over Internet connections
and telephone lines,
communicating the news
of those who can’t communicate.
i cringed in my mixture of pain, guilt,
of love, sorrow, my emotions
breeding from those moments
in my childhood when i sat,
holed up under my blankets
in a dark room of punishment,
wishing i could be instead
in your arms, your wet kisses
rough on my cheek, your
planned-out dinners and desserts
waiting for approval,
your I love yous ending every sentence.
instead, you have been moved
from one dark room of punishment
to another, shuffled around
like a naughty child,
no parent (child or grandchild)
able to solve the dilemma of your age.
i am one of them,
two generations down,
with young children of my own
who will never sit in a room
wishing for your warmth.
all i can do with
the electronically-presented words
still ringing in my ears,
is hole up in my room of punishment
and wish that i had called you
before they took your phone away,
wish that i had visited
before He took your mind away.
Can I write a long essay
instead of creating a PowerPoint?
should I hear words such as this
when writing, writing, writing is my life
and that is all he’s asking to do
and all that I’m denying him?
Yes I should, because I am building
twenty-first century learners
who know how to create action buttons
and add in Googled graphics
transitions that pop and sparkle,
and change the colors of their fonts.
Yes, these are the important skills
that will carry them into English 101
where they will sit amongst 600 others
and struggle to understand thesis,
paragraphs, critical thinking that I,
with this PowerPoint, have denied him.
You may sit,
a gluttonous ball of air
collecting dust most of the year.
but this exercise ball has bounce,
and if the district who offered you to me
knew what we’ve used you for,
they’d shake my hand for
burning the most calories
in the most creative fashion.
Thank you, ball,
for bouncing into my life.
my new favorite band
sings just to me
when you have pain or debt
who do you borrow from?
i think of Dunbar again
(just one riotous day)
and the root, of course,
in my love affair with words.
debt: Latin (debere), to owe
how ironic, rhymes with borrow
and i wonder if the Avetts, whose
name sounds like the Latin avis (bird)
are asking me (they sing to me)
if i borrow pain (can we borrow suffering?)
or if debt is a form of pain
or if it is life we borrow.
i will never know.
i am just a listener of songs
like all the other listeners,
borrowing their music to bury my pain.
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