Two-Thousand and Twelve

Well, so much for finishing all the things I was going to finish this year.
There are about two-thousand and twelve lines left on this list here.
But tomorrow will feel about the same
and we'll keep doing what we need each day
and some things don't matter anyway.
So let the winds of time carry off the chaff and leave the tasks we must hold dear.

Your Job

Your child is not a fashion show.
Your job is not to keep her from ever crying.
Your success shan't be measured in how well she sleeps.
Your child is a will and a soul.
Your job is to show her how to be whole.
Your care is real and your love is deep.

Now

Now you are eight months
and then you'll be eight years
and now you're the youngest
but then you'll likely be the oldest.
But we won't worry about then,
because now is enough.
Now we're both here
but with places to go
and lessons to teach
and lessons to know.
But don't you worry about that,
because I worry enough.

A New Combination of Words

Every chord's been played and combined with lyrics.
No sooner do I think of a song but I hear it
on the radio in someone else's words.
There are no more firsts, only seconds and thirds.

Language evolves like new strains of germs
but there's no new sounds (except those made by worms)
and this poem is just words that you've already heard
but I'm pretty sure it's a new combination of words.

Restless Leg Syndrome

This baby is awake--
her legs are climbing stairs.
There are no stairs in bed
but she doesn't seem to care.
Her climbing muscles fire
with no promise of abatement.
"Restless leg syndrome"
would be an understatement.

Big Days

On Thanksgiving day you pulled yourself to standing. We were all surprised.
On Christmas day you climbed a stair, and proceeded to climb the whole flight.
And on New Year's Day, what shall you do? Say a word? Take a step?
Maybe wait until your birthday. Your mom's not ready yet.

Me and Mary

I'm now quite sure that Mary "treasured up all these things"
while nursing baby Jesus. And I hope she could sleep while He slept.
I wonder if she had done much baby-proofing by the time the wise men came.
And did she have a high shelf where their gifts could be kept?
Was Jesus an early walker? He later walked on water.
Or, to prepare for later sermons, did his talking get an early start?
What kind of love did Mary see when she looked in Jesus' eyes?
So much for me and Mary to ponder in our hearts.

She Ate This Poem

Good to Know

I could gain thirty pounds and still not be technically overweight.
Good to know.
Some celebrities broke up, and some went on a date.
Good to know.

Whole wheat is good for you or whole wheat is bad.
Good to know.
And just for Christmas they are introducing a new fad.
Good to know.

It's good to know, it's good to know
and so we put our lives on hold
just to know know know.
Ideas for free, ideas for free
you could surf for a century
all to know, know, know.

I have more than five hundred alleged friends.
Good to know.
And my battery's life is about to end.
Good to know.

It's good to know, it's good to know
and so we put our lives on hold
just to know know know.
Ideas for free, ideas for free
you could surf for a century
all to know, know, know.

No need to think, just click a link,
and the thoughts of every shrink,
consumer, writer, rumor, friend
will come before you in a blink.

It's good to know, it's good to know
and so we put our lives on hold
just to know know know.
Ideas for free, ideas for you
to use when there's nothing left to do…
but no, no, no.

Festive

Tis three days before Christmas

and I'm sick in bed.

My face is kind of greenish,

my nostrils are red.

So I'm looking pretty festive

as I sit here sipping tea. 

I bet that even Santa

wishes he were me.

Some Other Year

December twenty-one, shortest day of the year.
All the days are too short as Christmas draws near.
Like the anti-thief in the night, the day will be here,
and I won't be ready. That's what I fear.
Let's give up on the parties and chatter and cheer
and try this again some other year.

Farther

Remember when we used to walk the same old streets but farther?
We had the lovely feeling that our world was getting larger.
Around each bend was something we had never seen before
and we'd get home so tired for we always wanted more.

After Running Around the World

After running around the world
for the past few years
like a chicken with its head cut off
I've discovered
I still have a brain stem.
I can stop flapping; I don't need to tread water.
I can start walking
as soon as I clear a path through this room.

Poems About the Rain

I've run out of small talk.
These words are just answers to "How are you?"
Shall we talk about my soul,
my spirit and my secret list of things to do?
This is the internet--
one small step away from public domain.
So, how's the weather?
Looks like we'll be having more poems about the rain.

Just a Day Behind

It often seems that I'm
just a day behind.
(Or sometimes two or three--
but who's counting? Nope, not me.)
If I put "get behind"
on a list of mine
and didn't get it done
could I catch up for once?

Jail

Some people try to go to jail just so they can freeload.
I've heard of that, and I'm sure it's rarely true.
Rare because, although we all hate to be busy,
in jail we'd make escape plans just for something to do.

Human Hearts

Human hearts can be so gross
and yet it's human hearts I treasure most.
This Christmas, I just want to hold you close.
All I want to do is hold you close.

Get Up and Go

Our baby's always on the move.
She wants to get up and go
but no place is safe for her.
We watch the news and want to move,
to leave, to get up and go
to someplace other than earth.

Digital Hoarder

At least I don't have a disorder disorder.
I'm quite organized as a digital hoarder.
This scanner/compacter makes my hoard dense.
The files are labeled. The folders make sense.

Save, Scan, Throw It Away

What was I saying,
before this message came across:
"You have some unsaved changes
that will be lost."?
Oh yes:
I've been scanning what I've saved
and throwing it away.
But I'll have it if I need it
on some later day.
And the chances that I'll look at it
while it's on my hard disk?
I'm sure if I just lost it,
I wouldn't know what I had missed.
But just going through these piles
has been rather fun––
remembering all the things I wrote
and the things I've done.
And what if I just tossed it?
Would that make me less?
Or would that make my life
just that much less complex?
Complexity is valued
in mystery, cheese, and wine.
Amongst these aged papers
there are clues to some of mine.
But complexities can't fit
on some papers, in a file.
There in me. I stand triumphant
on this growing recycle pile.
Save it, scan it,
and throw it all away.
Or just light it all on fire.
Either way, you're safe.

Furnace Day

I hope I remember next year in December
on the eleventh it's Furnace Day.
And we will celebrate by turning it to 88°,
but for now, 70° is plenty okay.

Comes to a Head

It's three thirty in the morning.
She's still
refusing to sleep like a baby.
She usually gets tired at midnight
but she's been
fighting it lately.
Genius borders disaster
as the end
of the term draws near.
She feels like she's missing something
but everything
comes to a head here.

Opposite Opinions

You'll find opposite opinions on the internet
masquerading as facts. It's a fact.
And when you want to know what's true, what do you do?
Unless you know, you can't relax.
If the internet's too scary, try the public library.
Wind your way back through those stacks.
Find still opposite opinions when you look in the books.
They'll say it's true. It's just a fact.

Catching Up

Just catching up on each other's lives.

It's so easy to get behind.

A little travel, a little time,

and we wonder where we are.

We find so much is still the same,

like growing up and constant change.

We've caught up for a few days

but keeping up is hard.

As My Friend is Here

This poem will be short,
as my friend is here.
Just a few days,
but oh so dear.

Needy

Why you gotta be so needy?
Promise me you don't be greedy
and pass your boredom off as thirst
or little bumps as hurts far worse.
Cry to me and I'll believe you,
change your diaper, hold and feed you,
aware my "need" to be your hero
could feed greed, and that's my fear. Oh,
why this be so complicated?
And when will you be satiated?
You know, I can be selfish too,
and I have things I need to do
when this apparent growth spurt's through.

Tomorrow's Poem

I'd rather write tomorrow's poem,
to make a guess at what's unknown,
to predict it like the weather
and to say "It will be better."
Even if that might be fun,
I live each day just as she comes.

[See this poem.]

Album-Titled Self

Oh, oh, my album-titled self.
I changed my name to get my product on the shelf.
Now I'm waiting, waiting to see if it sells.
Waiting all by my album-titled self.

Paint on the tape on the video.
There wasn't much that he wouldn't show.
And she was the voice that people would know.
At least he thought so.

In green paint now, because that's the best.
It'll all turn green until there's nothing left
but a green smoke stack and we all are deaf
from the people shouting yes.

And then we'll give up on our budget cuts
the minute we feel they've stuck us in a rut.
And we'll rush out and buy a new truck
just to handle a buck.

I usually write to make more sense.
That's not in right now, in my defense.
There's a cost to keeping up with the trends.
It's a business expense.
Life's a business expense.
I can write myself off as a business expense.

Oh, oh, my album-titled self.
I changed my name to get my product on the shelf.
Now I'm waiting, waiting to see if it sells.
Waiting all by my album-titled self.

Foreclosure

I awoke to a loud cold knock at the door.
I had no idea what they were here for.
Hasty and stern, they wanted their money.
I said, "There's no mortgage." They said, "Don't be funny.
Not your home– your brain. Pay for your education!"
I said, "I still am! I'm paying! Be patient!"
They said "It's too late. This is a foreclosure,"
and they opened my brain, commencing the torture.
With scalpels and forceps they started to sort.
I begged them to leave what I'd learned in the dorms
but they took it all– all I'd learned in college.
They scraped out the street smarts and took the book knowledge.
I forgot where I'd traveled, I lost what I'd read,
plus all the connections I'd made in my head.
It was gone, just like that. Those four years of studies
and time spent debating with my college buddies.
Then they closed up my brain. I had nothing to say.
They said with a smile, "Now you don't have to pay!"
Then I really awoke. Twas a dream. It was night.
Tried to go back to sleep, filled with freedom and fright.

Can't this be my day of rest?

Can't this be my day of rest?
I can see your way is best
if I just want to live 'til death
but I want more from life.
Can't I even stop and think?
Can't you see I'm on the brink
but if I never rest I'll sink?
I am a mother and a wife.

Untitled Poem

This poem has no title.
Like a horse without bridle
it wanders where it wills.
It says what it wants to.
So empty, it haunts you;
so free, its creativity killed.

If Saving is Earning

If it's true
as I have learned
"a penny saved
is a penny earned"
then I guess
I earn a lot.
It's not what I do
but what I do not:
I do not buy
designer cribs,
Swarovski crystal-
covered bibs,
formula,
Coach diaper bags,
or designer
spit-up rags.
I do not go
to shopping malls
or salons
or fancy balls.
I don't pick up
those magazines
or watch the ads
on big flat screens.
I do not use
six different sprays
to make my hair
look good all day.
I do not fly
in private jets
or take vacations.
At least not yet.
I do not drive
a brand new car,
or a golf cart,
chasing par.
I do not drive
a monster truck.
I do not pay
for tummy tucks.
I do not keep
an equine stable.
I don't hang out
on operating tables.
I do not need
a phone that's smart
or million-dollar
works of art.
I do not need
a leather chair,
a business wardrobe,
or childcare.
Being thrifty's not
a prestigious career.
But if saving is earning,
there's potential here.

In One Month

Your first tooth broke through,
you crawled and stood up, too,
you climbed up on the shelf,
all by your very self.
You ate chunks of bananas,
you made some sounds like "da-duh,"
you had many happy meetings
and you learned to wave a greeting.
You displayed your headstrong will
and once or twice you sat quite still.
All this progress in one month!
And me, what have I done?

Earn Your Own Salvation

We're all born in chains of sin.
Yes, that's what we believe.
But the answer's easy:
Jesus died to set you free.
Besides, it's in our budget.
A sinner's prayer is cheap.
You can share our Jesus
and our building we can keep.
But all your earthly troubles?
They are your own creation.
So from your living hell
you must earn your own salvation.

Not There

My selfish soul says,
"God, what the hell are you doing?"

                             God says,

                             "Your selfish soul's and hell's undoing."

I ask,
"God, where the hell are we going?"

                            "Not there, thank Me!"

Thank God, not there.

Longing

Sometimes I long for I don't know.
My heart just longs. I don't know why.
I feel this feeling will not go
away until the day I die.

Morning Sigh

Morning comes around

like cursive

where it touches the line.

My feet touch the ground.

It's cold.

The sun will rise.

I go upstairs softly. 

My face still pink

as the morning sky.

My brain still in a haze

like letters poorly erased

by the gummy night.

I pour myself some coffee,

hot coffee that has cooled,
to sip and sigh. 

Coming Home

Today I woke in my own bed.
A to-do list formed in my head.
Check the chickens, check email,
Follow my own paper trail.
Go through notebooks stacked in piles.
Turn them into labeled files.
Wash the diapers. Wash the clothes.
And then I'll think of more, I know.
First: breakfast and then take a shower.
Write three little poems.
Coming back to a list like this
means I'm coming home.

My Own Harmony

We turned scraps of trash into
works of art.
We took turns singing
the second part.

That sister way our voices blend–
you're my best friend, and that won't end.
But now that you are far from me,
I must sing my own harmony.

My voice is too loud
for this house,
whether I sing or
whether I shout.

Friends is something I should
get around to,
knowing that no one
will be like you.

     Come for a visit.
     Sing and I'll sing with it.

That sister way our voices blend–
you're my best friend, and that won't end.
But now that you are far from me,
I must sing my own harmony.

First Thanksgiving

You didn't want to sleep.
There was too much going on.
All these people to hold you.
You smiled at our laughter.
You waved to say hello.
You let us get to know you.
You ate some sweet potatoes.
You reached for all the sweets.
Your stopped to have some milk.
You crawled across the floor.
You pulled yourself to standing.
I'm so thankful for your health.

Before Thanksgiving

There is so much to do before Thanksgiving:
laundry and cleaning and dishes to bake,
papers to scan and meals to eat,
items for discussion and plans to make.
There is so much to do before Thanksgiving–
so much action among the ranks.
So much to do, but I refuse
to do it before giving thanks.

In the Family Room

My daughter is sitting

on my grandpa's lap

in the recliner

where he usually take's a nap.

My sister is finding 

a little snack to eat

on the counter where Grandma 

lays out the treats. 

My grandma's relaxing

and chatting a while.

I sit on the hearth and 

I watch and I smile.

To Write Yesterday's Poem

It's hard to look back into time,
search out the reason and the rhyme,
and all the sense that we can make.
We want to do another take.
And even now with all we know,
it's hard to write yesterday's poem.

All Good Things

You have everything you need today.
I want to give you so much more.
I want to give you all good things,
the ones not in the store.
Someone to look up to.
A shed of scrap materials.
Apologies sometimes.
To know all of life is the "real world."
A country road to walk on
beneath the glowing moon.
A spark of delight when you hear
that daddy will be home soon.
The confidence to stand at the front.
The courage to disagree.
Enough grace for others and yourself.
A little grace for me.
An understanding of how to gain knowledge.
The patience to practice your art.
A hideaway to fill with dreams.
Hope anchored in your heart.

Morning

You could use a bit more sleep.
I could use a bit more you.
If I leave you alone to sleep real deep,
will you wake up in a minute or two?
I'm pouring coffee, frying eggs,
I'm making up some toast
for breakfast with my sleepyhead,
the one I love the most.

But Me, I Don't Mind Change

But me, I don't mind change.
Let's get on with it.
Let's do something different.
I wouldn't mind a bit.
If staying here is normal,
let's do something strange.
To some that may be scary,
but me, I don't mind change.

Taste for Books

If you can read it, she will eat it.
She has a taste for books
and envelopes and papers.
They're everywhere she looks!
They motivate her crawling.
They spur her to great heights.
(She also has an interest
in her mom's reading light.)
She probably wonders why
we seem to really care
about those little markings
at which we often stare.
One day she'll understand
why we do what we do.
It's really quite simple:
we have a taste for books, too!

I Won't Write a Poem Today

I won't write a poem today.

I don't care what you may say.

You may beg, but there's no way–

I just don't have time.

I have other things to do.

I'd rather clean out chicken poo.

All these things I say are true–

unless, of course, they rhyme.

This Could Be a Song

It's been one of those days.
It's been one of those weeks
when getting pushed down
has reached a peak.
We keep walking, talking
about where we ought to be
so that we keep moving, doing
what it takes to be free.

This could be a song.
Just put the words with notes.
Sing it to your children;
tell them this is how life goes.
Life sure takes it out of you
until something's got to give.
Sing high, sing low, sing "We don't know!
Lord, teach us how to live."

Things fall apart.
They call it "entropy."
Which is why we're always running
out of energy.
And our lists get longer
as our patience runs thin.
It gets out of control, and all we know
is it'll happen again.

This could be a song.
Just put the words with notes.
Sing it to your children;
tell them this is how life goes.
Life sure takes it out of you
until something's got to give.
Sing high, sing low, sing "We don't know!
Lord, teach us how to live."

If we think it will be easy,
we won't see this through.
We'll be blind to what it takes
and what others have to do.
We might put off our serving
until our own needs are met,
Soon we'd be dying, finding
we've not been satisfied yet.

This could be a song.
Just put the words with notes.
Sing it to your children;
tell them this is how life goes.
Life sure takes it out of you
until something's got to give.
Sing high, sing low, sing "We don't know!
Lord, teach us how to live."

Country Block

There is a country block
with a city on one corner
and my friends live on one mile
and my family on another.
Each day we do our best work,
working side by side.
We have each other over
for a meal most every night.
And on weekends we go swimming
in the ocean 'cross the road
or go hiking on the mountain
on this country block I know.

Sunshine On a Cold Day

Sunshine on a cold day
can't take all the cold away.
Socks are warm when freshly dried.
I pull them on and look outside.
Crystals swirl like dryer lint
and the sunshine makes them glint.

Eggs

Maybe they think it's time for us to go.
Maybe they want to see us move far, far
away. Maybe they know.
Time to go wash the eggs off the car.

Maybe they think that all we have is trash.
Maybe they think that that is who we are.
Someday (maybe) they'll know.
Time to go wash the eggs off the car.

Poems for Sale

Poems for sale!
Fresh poems for sale!
Order them
by pigeon mail.
I'll tie them to
your pigeon's tail,
and send him back
on the next light gale
so they'll come fresh–
not one bit stale.
Yes, that is how
I'd pay my bail
if I were in
the county jail.
Poems for sale!
Yes, poems for sale!

Not a Given

The love of a family
is not a given
and a big extended family
is not a given
and a circle of friends
is not a given.

Acceptance and understanding
from those who talk and listen–
I listen to others and notice,
these things are not a given.

And now I have a debt, a bank
of thanks not given.
Stacks of notes of thanks to send,
for tomorrow's not a given.

Let Me Think

Let me think.
Let me know what you think.
Let me know, let me think that I know
how to go about this.
Then show me how to let go.

Let me see.
Let me wonder again.
Let me try this one more time and then
I'll be done on my own.
Then show me everything you know.

When We Vote

When we vote, we're one but two,
because I'll vote the same as you.
We choose our choice,
compound our voice,
and hope that what they've said is true.

So here's this running list of names
who give each other all the blame.
But I know you
and you've been true,
so let us think and vote the same.

Mad Scientist

If you've got a great idea, but no time left in the day,
and you wonder what the world would think or what your friends would say,
and your seven other projects are getting in the way,
and you're not sure that it will work (but think that it just may)
just pretend you're a mad scientist, and do it anyway.

Realistic Reality

If by "let's be realistic"
you mean "let's make that a reality,"
let's go!
And along the way,
please don't say
"I told you so."
Because when it is reality,
you'll find it quite realistic.
But if you stop right here
you'll already have missed it.

Get Well Soon

Get well soon.
We'll go outside.
We'll run around the yard and
rake up all
the leaves and move
them all into the garden.
Get well soon.
We'll go somewhere,
drive off without a care and
stop at stores
and buy some stuff
and generally run errands.
Get well soon.
We'll have some fun.
By "fun" I of course mean work.
Get well soon.
Unless you want
to stay and rock and nurse.

I Feed

I feed
the baby, then I feel
a hungry need
for food; I feed
myself, then I feed
the baby, then I feed
the sourdough starter, then I feed
the baby, then I feed
the chickens, then I feed
the baby, then I feel
a hungry need
for food; I feed
myself, then I feed
the baby, then I feed
the kefir grain, then I feed
the baby, then I feel
a hungry need
for food; I feed
myself, then I feed
the baby, and then I feed
the baby (again) and then I feel
a hungry need
for food; I feed
the household, then I feed
the sourdough starter, then I feed
the baby, then I feed
the chickens, then I feed
the baby, then I feel
a hungry need
for food; I feed
myself, then I feed
the baby, and then I sleep.
And then (again)…

Underneath

Underneath pink gums so tight
lies a row of pearly whites
that won't get through without a fight.
Makes me wonder what else is hiding inside.

If a Bogotano

If a Bogotana had this many cleaning supplies, she'd be a professional cleaner.
And he'd be a mountaineer with this hiking stuff, or with just one carabiner.
A Bogotano with this garage would not complain that it's too small.
He'd be a full-time carpenter with just one little stall.
With this moderate stash of polish, he'd be out there shining shoes.
And he'd only have two carboys if he was selling what he brewed.
A Bogotana would be a tailor with this nice sewing machine
and these two bikes would give a job to two Bogotano teens.
They don't need these two mowers– they'd mow parks with a string trimmer.
and they would have an office with these desks and macs and printer.
A Bogotano would start a bookstore with the books on just this case.
But rather than go into business, we keep busy just looking for space!

Seam Ripper

There she goes again,

ripping out the seams.

Doesn't she know

it will leave holes?

I wish I could hold it all 

together for her.

She thinks she might be

better off alone.

Bits of thread

lie scattered on the ground

while the bobbin spins

around, around.

And there she goes again,

ripping out the seams.

Half a Year

My baby is six months old,
that wiggly, giggly baby of mine–
that holdable, foldable baby
who is with me almost all the time.
That rooting, scooting baby
could soon get up and go.
Gone is the snarfing, barfing baby
that I used to know.

Half a year– where's it gone?
Or better, where has it taken us?
From Bogotá to the "big" SuFu,
by car, airplane, and public bus.

What have I done, in these six months
since the morning I gave  birth?
Each day I've had the same mother duties,
There's been no big change in my "net worth."

But a year is a circle, so half a year
must be about one hundred and eighty degrees.
And that's how much a baby can change
and how much a baby is changing me.

Sitting

If you're a Martha, not a Mary,
think twice before you have a baby
and plan on spending lots of time
just sitting at His feet.
Make all your many preparations
but don't forget about the patience
because, above all else
that's the thing you're going to need.
And they will ask, "What do you do?"
And you will ask yourself that, too.
And you must find your answer
while sitting at His feet.

Don't Get Old

"Don't get old!" she says to me.
(She is ninety-two.)
But I'm not sure there's anything else
that I can do.

Knowing that I am still young
and knowing what I don't,
sometimes I wish for long-term age
on a short-term loan.

Someday I'll know a life's worth; now
I make do with what I do.
If I keep doing what I'm doing,
soon I'll be ninety too.

Do-It-Yourselfishness

It's good if you like to do it yourself.
We like to do it ourselves, ourselves.
Home cooking, home brewing, and self home repair––
we birth our own babies, we build our own shelves.

It's good to take pride in the work that you do,
and we learn a lot when we get involved.
But when pride leads to pride that cuts off from others
then do-it-yourselfishness is what it's called.

Do-it-yourselfishness looks at the world
and says "I won't pay for what I can make,"
without thinking of work that others have done
and thanking them for the ideas that we take.

In our busy lives as do-it-yourselfers
we've probably saved a buck or two.
We've learned-it-ourselves when we've done-it-ourselves:
do-it-yourselfishness is easy to do.

The amazing DIY lung-powered snot-sucker.
Snot-sucker + tubing = proud parents.

When Grace Is What I Need

I cling to you like cicada shells,
as hollow as a bead.
I want you to fill me up
when grace is what I need.

I look to you like a little child
just learning how to read.
I want you to say I'm right
when grace is what I need.

I come to you like a punctured tire,
on a car still guaranteed.
I want you to change me quick
when grace is what I need.

I wait for you like a passenger
impatient for your speed.
I want you to come right now
when grace is what I need.

Chicken Coop

He's building me a chicken coop
that rolls around the yard,
so dealing with the chicken poop
shouldn't be too hard.

He's making sure this chicken coop
is structurally sound.
We'll have to get the neighbors' help
to roll the thing around!

Blood-Chocolate Level

That's why I've been cranky–
my blood-chocolate was low!
That's why life was dim and dark.
I'm glad that now I know.
It's bad to be in a bad mood,
but you know what's even worse?
When you don't know why you're in it–
now that's a double curse.

Berserker

Stir-crazy

future's hazy

seasonal worker

turned berserker

when I know

which way to go

you will see

no stopping me.

Good Sabbath

Oh, Good Sabbath, welcome rest!
Come put up your feet.
Sit with me upon the couch
and thank God for this week.
But first, Good Sabbath, let me ask:
would you like a cup of tea?
Or coffee, water, juice or milk?
A little bite to eat?
Good Sabbath, are you comfortable?
I wish the house was clean!
It's just I've been so busy–
you know what I mean.
Good Sabbath, I'll be right there.
Just one more thing to do.
If I just finish this a minute
I can concentrate on you.
Okay, Sabbath, now I'm done.
Good Sabbath, where'd you go?
You left before I had a chance.
Why, I'll never know.

Toys for My Baby

Toys for my baby–
what would she enjoy?
Based on trends of past forays,
she'd like these kinds of toys:
a mobile made of scissors,
needles, awls, and pliers,
on long strings hanging to her reach
(no fun if they were higher);
a playmat made of plastic sacks,
and books to tear apart;
a toybox full of tissues, chords,
and brightly colored darts.

I take away the cable
she has found to chew.
Of course she starts to cry.
I say, "Oh, I love you!
And that is why I put away
these things that are so fun.
I love you more than you love them.
Your fun is far from done."

If you find it morbid
to rhyme of deathly toys,
think of all your vices–
those dangers you enjoy.

Go Big or Go Home

You win some, you lose some,
most of us go on with either.
We say, "Go big or go home,"
but some can go neither.
It's not that they're afraid to take a risk.
they've just got nothing left to lose,
no goods left to proffer,
no option left to choose.
Life is not fair.
Some have the shorter end.
And me with the bigger–
can I be their friend?
When they must choose between two evils,
Can I give a third choice?
Can I speak for those
with no home, no way, no voice?

Walls

One wall for the dressers,
one wall for the closet,
two walls for the one big bed.

One wall for the couch,
one wall for the chairs,
two walls for the books we've read.

Sometimes I dream of
pickaxes, sledgehammers
and banging through walls with my head.

Go Away, Robin

Go away, robin,
for now it is autumn.
Leaves, fall down,
and geese, fly south.

Go away, evenings
and hide in the night.
Sun, set early,
and bonfires, light!

Each Day a Poem

I want to write a poem each day.
I just need something good to say.
And if there's nothing to be said,
I'll write one anyway.

It's good for me to think and write
to keep perception in my sight.
And so I'll make each day a poem,
and dream of verse each night.

"Why start today?" you'd like to know.
Just because it's time to go.
Seize the chance; start when you can
to make each day a poem.