Impossibly and inevitably it’s May.
April was National Poetry Month, which meant participating in one of my favorite annual traditions: Poemaday– attempting to write one poem every day for the whole month.
The group of women I write with are mostly neighbors- but that descriptor doesn’t feel quite enough to capture the bond we share in April.
Our poetry tells the stories of both our inner and outer lives- the warts and the joys in equal measure. I feel like during the month of April, we remove the shells we wear for most of the year and shine light on our most vulnerable and beautiful pieces. The poetry in our inboxes each day is this little gift we give each other and ourselves.
Normally, when I hit “Send” for my last poem on April 30, I feel a sense of relief and accomplishment. Here’s a creative pursuit I followed through on and am no longer responsible for.
But this year it was different. Because everything right now is different.
This year, I welcomed the arrival of Poemaday with more eagerness than in the past- hoping it could offer a sense of purpose and a diversion from the tedium of life in quarantine.
Writing poetry helped me sort through the anxiety of being alive at this moment and also allowed me to document the beauty of it. It forced me to seek out these little bursts of hope or wisdom or meaning during a time when I would just rather cocoon myself into a hoodie and stare off into some middle distance while drinking coffee and eating just-baked chocolate chip cookies.
Reading poetry by the other five women I write with was a salve. It called attention to little moments I wasn’t appreciating, it reminded me that despite how strange life is, there are still normal everyday heartaches and headaches and celebrations. Mostly, it reminded me that I wasn’t alone. That in the age of Covid-19, no emotion, no reaction, no frustration, no epiphany, no instance of overwhelming grief– no way of navigating this was wrong or weird.
We were all on this raft crashing through moments of terror, acceptance, frustration, mindfulness, anger, despair, hope and depression. And sometimes all at one time. All in one poem.
But Friday, it was time to get off the raft we shared. It will be there, tied to the bank waiting for next year. There won’t be any gathering this year to drink wine and chat about things not in verse. Just the six of us going our separate ways (metaphorically speaking). Returning back to days where poetry wasn’t tugging at our sleeves each day.
And rather than feeling that sense of victory and pride, this year it just feels empty and sad. Because the glue that sort of held my day together is missing and I’m having to just carry on in the weirdness. An entire month passed by, and here we are, still. In purgatory.
I suppose I could just blog more, but who really wants to read yet another update about my family’s ongoing (though frequently adorable) battle with baby mice (seriously, how the hell are they getting in the house) or my ongoing battle with the random socks I find hourly scattered about the house (seriously, how the hell to my children have any socks left in their drawers when they are squished in the couch cushions or under the dining room table or on the stairs or literally anywhere but in the laundry basket?!!!!!) Or my ongoing battle with the marbles Annie collects and then loses all over the house. That is not subtle metaphor. I am literally losing my marbles every day.
Anyway, I’ve rambled long enough. :
I never liked the word mindful All its trendiness The license it gives to stay focused on the inner Blind to the world around us The whole notion of self-care Tends to detract from mission critical Improving the world around us Completing, I was taught, God’s creation Partners in the making Of it all But never has my smallness been more apparent The world is ill And I haven’t the skills to heal it A truth that should humble me And yet I am close to crushed By my own problems That feel as big as giants Its time to take a breath Follow it through my body Be mindful Of my many blessings And the love I have still to give To those who need it I puffed my cheeks and blew Making a bubble so big it swallowed me whole And lifted me up and out Across the sky To somewhere, nowhere, anywhere but here Weightless, careless I floated along My mind empty of thought Or care Like Science Fiction The world paused and I moved on Or was it the other way around So out of time I was it did not matter What had stopped and who was going I was untethered and free But soon a voice One No three Called for me The bubble burst Back I fell To here And here I am And here I’ll be -SK
"New Math" Counting by tens is more efficient So they say By that measure It's been three groups of ten Days Not thirty That I've been locked away Like any number The days Inevitably decompose Into hours Minutes Seconds Milliseconds Microseconds Nanoseconds And just as suddenly recompose Into an eternity I liked the old way of doing things -SK
If only I could fold inside myself Like a jack-in-the-box in reverse Arm upon chest Leg upon arm Boxed away Until it is safe to come out Or at least quiet What a gift it would be To be deprived of sensation Just for a while -SK
Growing up the dogwood tree in my parents’ yard was my favorite play thing. When I was young I climbed it’s branches and escaped to a world of my own. Where I captained a boat besieged by pirates, or flew a plane to rescue a friend, or simply lived above it all, away and alone. When I was older I would sit on the bench underneath the tree and think. About everything and nothing. In those afternoons I wrote stories in my head. Not stories but books. Epic books, great American books, books about special girls overlooked and under-appreciated. When I was older still I would pluck a flower and place it behind my ear just so. And close my eyes and dream of love. The love of fairy tales where a woman lost is finally found. Growing up the dogwood tree in my parents’ yard was my fount of hope. A sign of spring and springs to come. A promise that time would move but it would stay. Constant. -SK
‘Teen Mom’ Mom, off to a dinner theatre with friends Dad and I spent the day together. Flipping through TV channels he settled on ‘Teen Mom’. When Mom returns home, asks how the day went, what we watched, she is mortified. I try to explain it was a gift. She is not prepared to listen does not want to hear about it. ‘Teen Mom’ is not dignified enough for her 87 year old husband. What she will not listen to is her loss. Back-to-back episodes played as Dad shared with me the joys and pain raising us three. He shared how hard it was sometimes. He reminisced on how they made it through each time. Sometimes a little worse for the wear, sometimes much stronger. He laughed about the little things etched indelibly in his mind. Yes, what a gift it was to hear his intimate memories raising us. Memories I might not have heard, had he not continued to see the Moms and their babies sparking those memories. I am grateful. Although he may not remember where I live, how many children I have, where he lives, where he is supposed to sleep each night; the memories of our childhood through his lens, were shared that day. Yes, what a gift it was. -TS
I touch my face and the smell of lemongrass shea butter soap brightens my day like warm sunshine. -TS
To see their smiles share our lives each Friday via a technology they do not comprehend that at times brings laughter & giggles only seeing one eye or a forehead, comforts me. -TS
My thoughts today flit around like a hummingbird’s wings. I take hold of one, only for it to slip away as if in outer space, untethered. I grasp for another. I resign myself for the evening to nestle into a book that has beckoned me all day get a good night’s rest and try again tomorrow. -TS
We haven’t lost our jobs It’s not a graduation year Our food is more than plenty We are blessedly healthy There is so much we can do In this roomy house of ours The weather has been perfect We’ve had more time to connect Yet I am close to weeping One moment, then another The uncertainty of all of this Akin to a dark and deep abyss -RB
Feed the ducks Their usual food sources are gone We don’t think of the ducks We’re used to seeing them, enjoying them Without thinking about how they get their food The ducks are still there, paddling furiously Unfed I sat down yesterday and wrote A thank you to every teacher That has a child of mine in class The virtual ones Before I sent the fourteenth email The responses came flying in Hungry ducks paddling to the water’s edge Grateful for the bread chunks thrown at them Feed the ducks Their usual food sources are gone -RB
Birthday parades With honking cars, homemade signs And cheering children Made me wish For longer snatches of happiness -RB
The drops Falling From the spout Become a Gush Then a spatter Intermittently All day A harmony For the cardinals To dance to -RB
He was angry and disappointed Nothing was working out as planned He had spread his wings and flew Was enjoying the freedom and view The grounding came as an ugly shock It made the flying seem like a tease A taste of what he had longed for Then suddenly being told, no more Now he is here with clipped wings Trying to find his way, a new way As an adult in his parents’ nest Is he their child, their peer or their guest
Today sucked And I don’t want to write a poem. But i will. It is done. -JW
Apologies to Will Smith Yo this is a story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside down I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there, to tell you how I became the Queen of the Living Room Chair. In Fairfax County Schools I was teaching class On the piano is where I let all the time pass Singin' some songs and relaxin all cool Teachin the chorus all day in the school When the coronavirus who was up to no good Started making trouble in my neighborhood We had one little infection and gov'ner got scared He said "You better stay home you better go no where!" I whistled for my dogs, they always stay near I wear my mask at the store, don't you fear. If anything, I could say that these days are rare But I thought, "nah forget it, I'll wait for clean air!" I've been sitting in my house about 7 or 8 Days or weeks, I can't keep it all straight I survey my kingdom I straighten my hair And sit on my throne in my living room chair. -JW
Sunday: I’m living my best life! Monday: What a good day! Tuesday: Will someone please talk to me? Wednesday: Despondent again. The cycle continues! -JW
All of the things that were looming The pile of clothes, the trim that needs painting, the overstuffed closet Still stare at me Now that I have the time to fix these things I need to find the will. -JW
In the soft light of the evening, When colors turn a muted grey There is a sadness with the sinking Of the sun, of the day In the best times of our lives We wake with plans our rest has spawned But do the hours we contrive Match the promise of the dawn? -JH
Early Birds (first clients of the day) Your lispy greeting With sleep-filled eyes Speaks to my soul Sometimes I wish we could both Crawl back into bed You're a Tigger Bouncing on springs How to dial down the whirling dervish And retain the fragile joy? Maybe I will see you Or maybe your wails Will be the only clue That you are there, somewhere A tempest in your family's teacup -JH
Among those who ponder and study and theorize about what God is saying and doing through this plague What cosmic signs are there for us in its timing and scope I am finally comforted today by a reminder that God is not in the storm the earthquake the fire the plague But in the still small voice inside And He breathes not desolation and end times But a whisper of an invitation Turn to me Walk with me Trust in me -JH
The baby stacks the nesting cups One into the other Then un-nests them One out of the other. Then again. One into the other. One out of the other. Watching her work is calming Like watching waves crash on shore Or watching leaves fall off trees Or watching clouds drift by The act of learning Also an act of Deliberation Concentration Patience Repetition And Forgiveness For each cup Mis-nested. The act of learning Like this Is also an act of love. I’m learning. -Me
Years from now (When we Spin yarns About all this) And I recall Telling him There were single rolls of Scott single ply in stock at the store But that I didn’t buy any- not one single Scott single ply- And I recall the face he made (One of Dismay Disbelief Disapproval Disappointment) I wonder Will it be him Or me Who was The April Fool? -Me
She wants to try on my red lipstick And I let her Not because I love the idea Of her almost-eight-year-old lips Coated in an eighteen-year-old’s lips But because I know it will bring her joy And we need joy right now. I watch her As she watches herself in the mirror Pursing her gaudy red lips Smiling Frowning Pouting Smirking And I see for a moment The young woman she’ll be one day. She’s going to be stunning Not because of the red lips But the golden hair The Caribbean eyes And the heart she wears On her sleeve. But tonight she’s still seven going on eight And she wants to wipe the lipstick off Worried that it could stain The blanket she’s slept with every night Since she was a baby. -Me
What was the day, When, Blowing the feathery heads off a dandelion And watching them drift Like cloud wisps Or sprites Or specks of hope Went from A joyful exhale To a gasp of disapproval? When do we stop seeing wishes And start seeing weeds? Maybe it’s the moment Your mother fusses at you, Your hair all sprinkled in dandelion seeds. -Me
I read That some sharks- Not all- Must swim Without stopping In order to breathe. Makos Great Whites Whale sharks Are “Obligate Ram Ventilators” Obligated to ventilate by ramming themselves Through their lives Because they’ve lost the ability To stop. I wonder If mothers might be “Obligate Ram Ventilators” Racing from One task To the next task To the next task To the next task To the next task The dinner The dishes The diapering The doing Doing Doing Because when they sit The household immediately closes in on them First a cat Then a dog Then a kid Then another And another All wanting things Scratches Snacks Stories Listening ears Slowly Consuming all the oxygen Surrounding the mother Until she suffocates Because she dared To stop. -Me
Everything just feels upside down The oldest says through tears She lists off All the awful things- Global warming Ocean pollution The stupid Corona virus Friends who can be jerks Sisters who hog all the attention- She wishes Life was more like the books She reads constantly Like Harry Potter Like there could wizards Or dinosaurs Or wooly mammoths And there were no cars She wishes life could be anything But what it is Right now. And I tell her I know the feeling And I tell her We just have to find the magic Where we are Like this afternoon Like flying the kite And lying on the grass On the hill As the sun warmed our shoulders And the wind rearranged the clouds in a monochromatic kaleidoscope And the world felt upside down In just the right way. -Me