My walls are enough. Put down the pictures.
My laugh is enough. Turn off the movie.
My child is perfect. Look away from the others.
My life is mine. Turn my eyes inward. Spend time attending to the dishes and the laundry. Clean the acorns off the driveway.
Plants thrive when spoken to. So too inner peace. Spend time being in my life, molding it, spinning on a potter’s wheel, wet clay in my hands.
Make the beds and sweep the floors. If a storm comes, I’ll be ready.
I can feel my chapstick drying on my lips as I lay in bed trying not to worry about how my son will return to school with a broken arm and how will I be there for us enough working the night shift I can’t even go to Meet the Teacher evening but someone has to pay for the cast and his dad’s emergency appendectomy these are not sexy thoughts these are 42 yr old thoughts.
I breathe in and out and suddenly it’s tomorrow.
Nazis wave Confederate flags and some lunatic says his nuclear missiles can reach us making my face break out.
Those two white butterflies chase each other outside the kitchen window where the smell of pesto beckons us all to dinner.
It’s hot and our heads are different.
There’s every reason to get excited.
When it’s all over, someone will have won
and clouds will float overhead.
I am not immune to your stingers-I no longer fear the pain.
Everyone has pain.
But if my life is a little happier than yours, it is because I worked at it.
I changed my mind and learned what cannot be controlled and what can.
I control me.
Just my reaction to the tennis balls hurling over and over again.
I worked at how not to stand still gathering bruises.
I studied people whose tennis balls didn’t bruise them.
You can, too.
Or you can not.
Steel rods jut out from his legs.
We shove another pad underneath to soak up the blood.
The tube taped to his mouth makes his chest rise and fall.
A Good Samaritan from another state, helping a woman on the side of the road, now alone in a strange place, breathing through a machine.
Two rooms down is worse. The dr pulls the sensor slowly from a hole in a young man’s skull. No need to keep track of his pressure now, she says in not so many words.
“But he ran the red light?”
The nurses shake their heads up and down, silently rationalizing. This one didn’t follow the rules.
No one speaks of the Good Samaritan.
It took me twenty-five years
to feel what you planted
and how I wish that I had those years back
to feel confident
all the things you told me I wasn’t.
I didn’t know I had believed you
until I stopped.
When you told me I was nothing
my brain railed against it.
It threw wood at you,
It yelled back,
I thought I had escaped.
my heart believed you.
Sitting quietly at a table,
looking at you with wide eyes,
then looking down.
You spoke the truth,
it knew it.
And I may spend the rest of my life
convincing it otherwise.
That One Note played over and over,
longing, mournful, angry, desperate–
once or twice joyous.
War could whisper through.
And career, family, art, music.
But fleeting and peripheral because
One Note Banging
SOUND SOUND SOUND.
Now little laughters, the sun rising, our skins softly aging.
The edges of things!
where before blurry, if not imagined.
for lifting that monotonous veil of Self
to reveal the symphony beyond.
This entry was posted in
Poetry and tagged aging, change, children, loneliness, marriage, motherhood, poems, poetry, symphony, time on . June 19, 2016