#67

what would you do, heart 
without a cell phone ringing 
or me texting and snapping and retrieving
one hundred and fifty times a day?

what would you say, heart 
without me having to answer
every forty emails, deleting forty more
and bothering so much with Siri?

what would happen to you, heart -
in all your soft glory -
if you could just beat and love
and beat some more?
intuiting the vastness of stars
before night even falls.
catching his breath
before she walks into the room.
embracing my child before he walks
    away.

i remember when.
there was a feeling.
so much to feel       really.
    so much
more.

 

#4

sometimes it's the absence of weather
and not the storms 
that feels so troubling
in love.
as if a torrential downpour or heatwave or drought
could better convince me i'm alive
when really 
it was the big of your hand
on the small of my back
that made the sky fall.

i have tried to pull daggers 
from the soft cavern of my words
but dropped them against the echoing 
i am you.

Something Important

I have an ache the size of something terribly important – but am exhausted by the business of so much minutiae that I’m not even sure for what I ache, nor where the longing itself is located – would I fill it with one more trifle.

There is a pen
            and so many drawers
                          emptied of words.

A stifled urgency.

A haunt.

The Silent 12

It’s my first-born son, Ben’s, 12th birthday today. It looks less unbelievable as a number than a word. 12th. Twelfth. I had to look up the spelling because there wanted to be a “v”. Because twelve has a v and it has been 12 Very short years since I met this kid and now I gotta spell it with an “f” cuzĀ  Why The Face? WTF?

The past 12 years have been pretty silent ones over here, when it comes to the written word. Not because of busy-ness so much as because how are you going to string together some words to try to describe or celebrate something that is happening around you at such lightening speed, you’re just trying to keep your skirt from blowing up in the air – lifted out of your own body’s sheer momentum? Darn he’s beautiful. Such a lovely soul. So much kindness and awareness. Such strong beliefs. Such courage.

I like photos for this reason. And I know what they say about the “thousand words.” It’s just, if you have the right ones…you only need like 3. Or maybe 8.

I loved him since before there were words.

Resistance

Anything but writing. And I mean anything. Shoot, I ‘ll crawl under the sub-floor of someone else’s house to look for potential leaks, even though there is no indication of one, before I will sit down and get my work done. This, in the book The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, is called “resistance.” I have all flavors. It started when I was 9 and I realized I was a writer. I wrote a poem in class and that was that. I was a writer. That it was a relatively deep poem for a nine year old may or may not be true. But of greater significance is that, upon completing it, I knew – and I mean KNEW – that I had just discovered something – a part of myself – that was as important as air and water. I had found my voice. What followed this “realization” was a series of distractions. I was to be the first female President of the United States. Next, a doctor. An attorney. A teacher. A writer again (heavily medicated with alcohol and consequentially, unable to do anything with the writing that I actually did), a bar-tender, a waitress (these last two only AFTER receiving a BA in English Literature and a MFA in Poetics), a sales rep., and finally, a Realtor. A gal who sells a lot of houses and writes just a little bit of poetry. The book suggests that if we were all taking up our callings, and doing what we know in our hearts we were put on this planet to do – that one genius about us that is ours only – there’d be no more war, starvation, poverty, addiction, mental health problems, etc. Sounds good to me. I, of course, want to chain smoke cigarettes while I am writing and since that feels like a recipe for an early death – I don’t. Also, I don’t write. This is the resistance Pressfield is talking about. I wonder what all the people I love are not doing. And all the just so-so friends – what is it that they are not doing that they were born to do? And how, when we really like someone, finding out this gold morsel of what is under all their doing-ness and the busy-busy and the roles – how they are even more like-able; how suddenly they are fascinating. I am going to put it out there. I am going to ask. What are you NOT doing that is your true calling, your forever dream, your heart’s desire? See what shakes loose. Maybe it will give me something to write about. And, if not me, then maybe you.