My friend Jean has inspired me with her fabulous blog full of excepts from her life. In her honor I am creating a new category for all random things that are neither Reiki or Doula or Birth Art, but can only be described in Jean’s words: “Other”. To get in the groove I have been going through the sketchbook I have been using since the fall. This is the book that I take to all my meetings. It holds all my to do lists, sketches, outlines, rough drafts, and poetry. Many things are born in this book and never grow beyond its pages, but instead are buried when six months later I need to buy a new sketchbook. My task today has been to edit my sketchbook poems. Here they are, every poem I have written since September in chronological order!
Winter Artist Date
A cloud of little dark birds
like swirling leaves in the distance,
rush hour traffic going by,
and me nestled between trees
and the library, sitting on cold cement.
My pants are too tight.
Circles of leaves and garbage
are blowing in brisk air.
Someone in the parking garage
is speaking with a policeman.
A woman walking is a small dog
so it can poop, and she can pick it up
with a plastic grocery bag.
What am I doing here,
when will I be too cold to stay out,
and where will I go then?
More little dogs doing their business,
the traffic died down some,
maybe I will go, but where?
The Questions We Don’t Ask
The questions we don’t ask,
the ones we don’t have words for;
vague loneliness and disconnection,
silence, white noise, broken
pathways from heart to brain;
tears so deep, buried
beneath layer upon layer
of fear and lies,
fundamental lies,
consumed in baby bottles
filled with foreign milk;
lies fed to mothers,
passed down mother to mother
through omission of magic;
power, strength represented
only in shadow, silhouette,
rather than invoked through intention.
Memories
Two lovers linger outside my open window
as you sing from my stereo speakers.
My dog barks at the lovers as the sweetness
of your adoration blossoms in my memory.
My bread dough rises. I punch it down,
and shape it into two separate loaves.
To my true love
I long to have your attention undivided,
your complete adoration
words, hands, body, mind;
no worries or sadness
drawing your thoughts away
like distracted children.
A Tree Grows
A tree grows day in and day out,
dry and wet years, wanting no more
than to reach the sky.
A tree gives day in and day out,
to the air, to the soil,
to the birds and little creatures.
A tree says “yes” day in and day out,
“yes” to the woodpeckers, the sun and the rain,
“yes” to the winds, both the gentle and the harsh.
All this growing, giving, striving
is done in perfect time ;
a tree doesn’t hurry the blossoms or the fruit,
the birds or the sky.
Neighbors
Two birds are calling, in unison,
voices on opposite ends of the field;
talking with one another, sentences
punctuated by a woodpecker,
brought to me on a spring breeze.
Untested Boundaries
My little dog does not know
that if she nudges the
unlatched door it will open, or
how easy it is to push past
the torn screen door;
even though she loves
being outside more than anything.
Today I am Perfect
Today I am perfect.
I have all I need,
all I want.
My heart is warm and full,
the sun bathes me in light;
the earth holds me close with her love.
I have given up all
deadlines and agendas,
there is nothing I need to do
except daydream and drink in sunshine,
living out my thank yous.
Anna Graybill 