Poetry Month: April 30

In which I thank anyone who read through the month with me. As I said at the beginning, this is a month of rough drafts, ready for re-working and polishing, and I hope you may see some of these (because some are bound to hit the trash pile ("Even Picasso had a wastebasket," as one of my friends once said about my sad attempts at drawing...) cleaned up and redone in upcoming months. But--for now--the pressure (self-applied) is off and I promise a blog-rest, at least a small one.

Poetry Month: April 30

I have spent one month in poetry’s grasp:

reading, writing, seeing, hearing,

learning (above all, learning)

how to find the music,

how to sing the happy and the sad

in my everyday.

Thirty days, producing twenty-five

(count them, twenty-five) poems:

not always timely, not always pretty,

but faithful, dogged, reliably

written, spoken, sung

to the melody of living.

Poetry Month: April 29: Salon with Poet

Reception

What am I doing here?

Adrift in a clutch of the well-to-do,

gathered to hear the poet

who will read in concert tomorrow…

but first, this private reading,

inside an inner circle

to which I don’t belong.

Careless chatter of celebrities,

of tennis and trips, of people

whose names I will google later,

in order to be further intimidated.

They sip Campari and Prosecco,

these magazine people

with their classic houses, and suitable books,

with servants, antiques and

classic cars, with waterlily ponds

and sculpture on the patio.

The evening’s star stops and smiles,

and I introduce myself,

spinning my wineglass between my fingers,

then yield my place to someone

with more memorable things to say.

Poetry Month: April 28: Laundry

Laundry

Whatever happened to washday?

The old children’s song designated Monday,

but perhaps that was when laundry took all day

and employed wringers and clothespins

and clotheslines and sunshine.

Now, washing machines and dryers

almost do the job themselves

indoors, with little intervention,

requiring me (only) to load and unload,

to fold and distribute.

If I had a washday, I imagine,

there might be time again to ponder,

between agitation and the wringing out,

the items pegged to my backyard line:

the heavy blankets,  the workday jeans,

the sun-bright sheets, the t-shirts,

snapping like bright flags—

the underpinnings of my day-to-day,

each one a poem in its own right,

alive and warm in the springtime breeze

and smelling like sunshine.

Poetry Month: April 27: Working from Home

Working at Home

Today, when the office-bound

embark on their trek through

a wilderness of cars,

I grab a cup of tea

and head for my first meeting.

Jake (my silent partner) and I

evaluate the tasks for the day

and devise a plan of action.

I plow through the email,

deal with the financials,

communicate with principals,

assess the status and needs

of ongoing projects

and alter timelines as needed.

Jake naps.

Today, when the office-bound

work through lunch,

scrambling to meet deadlines,

Jake and I move on to

supply and maintenance,

taking inventory, making lists,

selecting and transporting,

applying new techniques

and old-fashioned effort

to the job.

At least, I do. Jake gazes out the window,

considering product development:

the invention of a squirrel repellent,

or an electrified birdbath

to annihilate the competition.

This evening, while the office folk

celebrate productive days,

take stock of losses,

and plot tomorrow’s course

at various happy-hours,

Jake and I, in our well-ordered house,

consider our accomplishments  

and congratulate ourselves

on jobs well-done:

he with Friskies Party Mix,

me with my glass of wine.

Poetry Month: April 26: Sleeping at 40K Feet

Sleeping at 40 000 Feet

One would think it more comfortable than it is,

sleeping at this height.

After all, the clouds are

pillowy soft (or so it seems)

and there's not much to disturb:

the errant jet jostling the air,

the occasional spot of turbulence..

And yet it seems too far from earth

to comfortably rest,

too close to the angels

to lose my soul

in the sweet expanse

of nothingness

peopled only

by my dreams.