Running Out of Ideas
Running out of ideas?
I’d like some big hairy accomplishments to come
running out of ideas.
I Can Lie in My Bed
I can lie in my bed with my eyes closed
and jump from room to room.
I am lying on my right ear,
so at the apartment I am facing the changing table,
at the old house a chest of drawers,
at my Grandma’s the closet doors,
in Spain, a small space and Alaina,
at Mt. Rainier, the window,
at Sol Duc, the wall.
I open my eyes to come back,
to find myself in my bed,
facing my husband,
at home.
Three Steps Ahead
I will often be three steps ahead of you,
out in the useless future,
making a list of projects, and a plan,
because I’m not sure what to do right now.
Home Where the Buffalo Roamed
This is my home,
where the buffalo roamed
and the deer and the antelope played.
And there’s still some out there,
breathing in the fresh air,
and I have a warm place to stay.
Telling a Story
I am telling a story
like Garrison Keillor.
Each paragraph hanging on by a thread
to the one before it.
Not knowing where this is all going,
I’ll find at the end that the thread
was what the story was about.
Looking Through Pictures
Looking through pictures,
remembering summer,
realizing winter
is kind of a bummer.
I Love Routines
I love routines.
Do you know what I mean?
Do you jump out of bed
when your day’s in your head,
when you don’t have to wonder
if you’ll lead or be lead
by the random assortment
of things that come up?
Or would you rather just drink
what life puts in your cup?
Do you like to predict
just when you’ll be where?
Or do you really not care
just who sees your bad hair?
When the doorbell rings
and you’re not panicking,
because you’ve made use
of your morning routine,
then I’m sure that you
will know what I mean.
I love routines.
Where the People are Bold
I don’t like to live where the roads turn to ice,
but I do like to live where the people are wise
enough to drive a bit slower.
I don’t like to live where the air is so cold,
but I do like to live where the people are bold
enough for the days that are colder.
Simple Task
I couldn’t stand it anymore–
all the toys out on the floor,
and yet, although the toys looked fun,
they were not used by anyone,
except, sometimes, to hurt our feet,
or keep our house from looking neat.
“One-at-a-time, not all-at-one-time,”
I said one day while feeling fine
while sorting play things into sacks
and bags and boxes just to pack
them all up on a shelf, real high,
where none could reach, but me and I.
It seemed the more I took away,
the more that she could find to play!
And now she knows, that if she asks,
I’ll fetch one box– a simple task.
For My Birthday
This is for my birthday–
a moment of quiet to write poetry.
Not silent, as I can still hear
the whisper of warm air from the register,
the chatter of my daughter,
the clank of the dishwasher,
the steps of my spouse–
all that I could wish for
for my birthday.