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.