Moving Poems

Boxed Up

A life in boxes

paper-wrapped, tucked away

and neatly taped for transport, all

clean right angles--

easily stacked, with printed labels

describing contents and locations.

How beautiful the order!

How simple and predictable,

accessible and organized...

Perhaps this is the way other people live.

Pandora

The room is full of exploding boxes.

Knee-deep in packing paper,

brandishing a box-cutter,

I stand

amid the wreckage 

of my formerly-contained life

like Pandora, trying to force

released demons 

back to their confinement. 

Insecure

How deep my insecurity must lie

for me to retain so much:

doubles and triples of things

meaningful or mundane, 

or maybe, just a memory:

a souvenir, lest I forget

how blessed I am to have,

In a world beset

by so much need.

Listening

Sounds of home: 

the stairs creak and the plumbing 

wakes with a familiar (yet misremembered) rumble.

The jets overhead find their way home

via the river

and we wake to the engines’ roar--

along with the coo of doves,

which sounds just right for

a wake up call

(Less so when we find they've decorated our windows

as they gently welcomed morning…)

Moving Stories

There are a million stories in a move:

mysteries, like, where is the vacuum

and why did we keep that, and

is this yours?  

Half a million logistical problems in a move:

like, will this fit through the door, or

up the stairs, or in this drawer?

A quarter million phone calls

and technicians, arranging

services and utilities and deliveries,

cleaning and repairs and touch ups

and changes we should have foreseen.

Thousands of boxes and pieces of paper

requiring signatures or disposal or recycling…

Hundreds of small changes to adapt to:

like getting the mail,

finding the newspaper,

learning our way around

to market, to restaurant, 

establishing new routines, new paths

to old haunts...

and after that,

after all that,

returning to --and re-establishing

the singular life we knew so well,

that seems so long ago.

Storming Through

Sitting in the pre-storm twilight

with sun cloaked in cloud,

cat asleep on my lap

as if it were truly night..

I find myself dreaming

past the temporary storm,

past the threatening sky, 

past all that is wrong with the world

(and so much is..)

Dreaming of a brighter dawn

a bluer sky, a happier prospect

for us all.

Rain-washed streets

and freshened gardens

breathe more freely

and the sun smiles down

as it did before.

This is only a storm. 

It will pass.

Moving Music

This house is full of echoes;
hard surfaces bounce sounds
like basketballs from floor to ceiling
and back again to a silent infinity.
Percussive traffic, passing planes, our own voices
reverberate unmuffled against undraped windows:
loud, insistent, strident as cymbals.

Yet the doors swing wide to possibility:
a circus train of carpets and furniture,
a clown car of boxes and personality,
spilling warmth in its wake.
Blank walls give way to paintings,
floors don their carpets,
cushioned sofas soften conversation
to a quiet hum.
This is the music of moving..

Grandmother’s China

There is, when the boxes are all unpacked, 

a wineglass near the sink; 

it has not held a drop of wine in forty years. 

How did this crystal remnant 

of a grandmother's table 

surface on my counter, separated from its sisters? 

We are the repository 

for the china, the silver, the crystal 

of our family's long-ago brides: 

pristine and sparkling with hope and plans 

for afternoon teas and holiday suppers 

for parties with friends 

and confidential conversations 

at kitchen sinks 

while dishes were washed and dried and 

carefully put away, 

lovingly polished and nestled in flannel-lined boxes. 

Brides no longer dream  

of crystal winking in candlelight 

or silver forks chiming on porcelain. 

Today is stainless and paper and plastic, and 

the occasional sturdy dish   

slammed into dishwashers, with 

buttons jammed for normal wash 

and sani-rinse. 

No one “does” the dishes anymore; 

dishwashers aren't known for conversation. 

And meanwhile,  

ranks of lonely goblets, 

stacks of neglected china,    

shelves of tarnishing silver, 

the linen napkins, the embroidered tablecloths 

languish in their dusty wrappings,  

awaiting the inevitable estate sale, 

longing for the light of day. 

Remembering.