I feel adrift today, with many things that need to be done and many things I want to do. They all sit at the edge of my attention waiting to see where I will put my focus. The garden with its weeds, which will be there again in a day or two. The house which needs to be vacuumed and given a general wipe down. Preparing something for the neighbor's potluck this afternoon. My husband's business accounts, Christmas presents to knit, soup to make and freeze, friends to text, my book- which is calling me because I am at a "good part," letters to write, the attic to sort through, shifts to schedule at the library.
It is a sunny fall day, the wind is playing the chime by the window, and the dappled shadow of the hemlock outside plays on the wall, time fades when I contemplate. I could gladly stay in this moment and do nothing. I guess I can understand my 14-year-old, and what he is going through this 1st month of high school. His mind is so full of promise. He is having a hard time focusing on his homework. And once done, turning it in. I feel for him. It is a harsh world for one who lives in books, and his head or someone who is fond of drifting.
So I will try and be a good example and prioritize my day, get busy with doing something. Oh, to be in a world where I could just float and be.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Evolutionary Games
It's there within my DNA
some gene that says I should have wings
I can feel the itch at night
along the sharpened edges of my shoulder blades.
In my dreams are whispered voices,
barely audible above the screams of silenced mouths
dreams which breathe of knowing.
I wake with pictures etched upon my lids.
All day long while I consume the grayness that's the day,
I blink and see bright wings against the sky,
blink again to wipe them neatly from my mind.
Last night I shed my clothes,
and searched in vain this tight cocoon of breasts
and cunt and legs,
searched for cracks, or ends, or strands to pull,
anything which would unwrap and set me free.
What is this endless game that's being played
which keeps me hanging on the underside of expectation?
I wrote this poem when I was in my 20's and in college. I found it in a pile of old papers and thought how true it was for me now in my 50's, but for different reasons. I really would like to write poetry again, but it takes time, and it takes some focus. I seem to have too many distractions, or maybe it is just I need practice and the will to try.
some gene that says I should have wings
I can feel the itch at night
along the sharpened edges of my shoulder blades.
In my dreams are whispered voices,
barely audible above the screams of silenced mouths
dreams which breathe of knowing.
I wake with pictures etched upon my lids.
All day long while I consume the grayness that's the day,
I blink and see bright wings against the sky,
blink again to wipe them neatly from my mind.
Last night I shed my clothes,
and searched in vain this tight cocoon of breasts
and cunt and legs,
searched for cracks, or ends, or strands to pull,
anything which would unwrap and set me free.
What is this endless game that's being played
which keeps me hanging on the underside of expectation?
I wrote this poem when I was in my 20's and in college. I found it in a pile of old papers and thought how true it was for me now in my 50's, but for different reasons. I really would like to write poetry again, but it takes time, and it takes some focus. I seem to have too many distractions, or maybe it is just I need practice and the will to try.
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