About Design
My husband says, “Write a poem about design.”
And he’s right. That’s what’s been on my mind.
The reason I haven’t written poems this past week
is I’ve had a dozen vector graphics that I had to tweak.
It’s amazing what some points, some lines, some colors in between
have the strength to say. How much they can mean.
And how much there is to learn when each mistake’s a class
and the notebook is my brain and I have to write so fast.
The Words, the Pictures, and the Music
Unlike the brain behind my face,
And then maybe they would fit…
or overflow?
What Language
I speak to my husband in This-ish.
I speak to my baby in That-ish.
And what language do I think in, you might ask.
I think about what I am seeing.
I think about what I am doing.
And being poetic’s becoming a difficult task.
Watch and Play
You always do fine in the nursery.
There’s plenty of toddlers to track.
While your mama’s away
you watch and you play
until your mama comes back.
All Caught Up
Wouldn’t if feel wonderful to feel
all caught up?
Everything behind you,
nothing but the breeze and the sunshine on your face. I’d be
scared.
Wouldn’t you feel scared?
Losing that tension that keeps a few things from getting done,
a few projects from flying
would be like losing gravity.
All caught up:
caught up by the atmosphere.
Yes, it would be clear.
But I’d be scared.
All Poetry Is Lost
Today was going to be the day I got caught up.
I guess that will be tomorrow.
If you run out of things to do,
I have a list you can borrow!
But I’ll write on that some other day.
Tonight I’m only here to say…
All poetry is lost
when your child must be trapped in a plastic contraption
to write it.
To Do What I Set Out To Do
If I had the time to do what I set out to do,
I’d need not one hundred years, but two!
Each Delicate Thing
Flakes of frost fall swiftly at an angle to the ground.
I should have taken a picture while they were all up on the tree.
But if we were to capture each delicate thing and flatten it forever as a file
quick before it changes
just think how many pictures there would be of you and me.
Draft
What do you do
when a different religion
comes knocking at your door?
“Uh huh, thank you, I’ve got to go.”
It’s cold outside.
I don’t want to let in a draft.
But could I let a gush of warm air out to them?
Oh, Library
Oh, Library!
I hear you calling me!
I have seven books on hold, apparently.
(And three books overdue,
and one that needs some glue.)
While you wait for me, please know: I love you.
I know you open up at ten.
I have four more poems to pen
and then I hope to see you again, my good friend.