More Less

I need to write more poems again.
I miss the way my brain worked then.
I also need to play more songs,
design more websites, right more wrongs,
find more clients, make more cash,
do more with my craft-stuff stash,
speak more Spanish, read more books,
spend time proving I can cook,
make more friends, call friends more,
do more with my Etsy store,
give my toddler more of me,
be the best that I can be,
yes, the very, very best–
okay, so what should I do less?

How to Write a Poem

It Would Have Been Easy

If I could have only seen
exactly what this year would bring
this would have been easy.
I could have locked myself behind a door
and written every poem beforehand.
It would have been easy.

But this hasn't been easy.
Have you seen how fast time passes?
And so now we have these glasses
but we still don't see twenty-twenty.
No, this hasn't been easy,
A year ago today
I sat just twenty paces away.
So I might not have gone far, but I have plenty.

If I could have known
what I would feel inside each poem
it would have been easy.
It would have felt more like a ride
and less like a black diamond
and it would have been easy.

If I had written every poem this past year
to publish them in the coming one,
I could have spaced them all out perfectly
but they never would have gotten done.
It would be just another idea I had
that never went either well or bad,
but only stale like a passing fad.
But it would have been easy.

And what if I had said "Enough!
Does anyone even read this stuff?"
It would have been easy.
But I had things to write about
just to breathe and get them out
because it wasn't easy.

No, this hasn't been easy.
Have you seen how fast time passes?
And so now we have these glasses
but we still don't see twenty-twenty.
No, this hasn't been easy,
A year ago today
I sat just twenty paces away.
So I might not have gone far, but I've done plenty.

First Things First

There are corners to be cleaned
and pages to be seen,
fruit to be pressed
and a desk that is a mess.

But you can't sing your own song
until you write your own poem.
That's just the way it goes;
first things first.

There are high notes and low,
fast beats and slow,
so many people to please,
and a tremor in my knees.

But you can't sing your own song
until you write your own poem.
That's just the way it goes;
first things first.

Cover

I could waste my time
thinking it's all mine,
writing my own rhymes,
thinking they're so fine,
thinking I'm so cool
making my own rules
teaching my own school
of thought, like I'm not
just using the same words
everyone has heard
plowing the same dirt,
feeding the same birds,
surprised that nothing grows.
Don't I know
half of this is just for show?
How does the story go?
Oh, yeah: everyone dies,
maybe loved ones cries,
we dry off our own eyes
because it's not really a surprise.
At least we died wise
or at least we tried
but what's left of our lives?
A song of sacrifice
is the one (the one!) we won't forget,
the one that lasting life begets,
and so I'm going to cover it,
yes, that's the song I'll be.
Cover it true, cover it new,
the best cover I can do,
and still I'll need You,
your sacrifice to cover me.

One Month To Go

One month to go, and it won't go slow.
I have lots of poems to write.
More than a month's worth, that I know.
Plus, they can't be trite.
Eleven months of ups and downs,
and I'm still writing here.
I might not have written a poem a day,
but I'll have three-sixty-five in a year.

If No One Ever Reads This Poem

If no one ever reads this poem,
at least it's not on paper,
so it will cause no trees to fall in the forest.
But even so,
as I write,
there is a tree falling.
We just don't hear it.

Far

Writing poems in the car
makes each line go far.

Just To Get It Out

I would like to write a song
but nothing on my mind is worth singing about.
But I could sing it anyway
just to get it out.

Clear my mind of calculations
of who owes who and explanations,
Clear my mind of pros and cons and
spreadsheets they are written on
'cause I just want to write a song.

I would like to write a song
but nothing on my mind is worth singing about.
But I could sing it anyway
just to get it out.

Clear my mind of to-do lists,
wish lists, hit lists, things to get.
Clear my mind of goals and plans
… and clear my mind of who I am.

I would like to write a song.
Something in my mind is worth singing about.
I'm all humming inside.
Now just to get it out.

Leave a Comment

If you have missed my poetry,
well, I have missed it too.
Each day flies past
so very fast
and there's so much to do.
So if you've missed my poetry,
please give me some first lines
or leave a comment
with a topic
and I'll respond with rhymes.

No One Needs Poetry

No one needs poetry.
They need food
and shelter,
hope, peace and love.
But since we don't all have
all these things
we need poetry.
But if we all had
food, shelter, hope, peace and love,
then we would not need poetry.
But then we would want it
all the more.

Prose

Put a tune in your head while you're writing
and you'll end up writing a poem.
So if it is prose that you're after,
just leave all that music alone.

Don't Go to Facebook

Don't go to facebook for inspiration when you're trying to be poetic.
You'll be sucked in for hours and come out feeling confused, amused, and pathetic.
You'll have seven tabs open with articles you've been recommended to read
and three more tabs with giveaways of things you probably need.
And you'll find out someone is pregnant and someone else is married
and so much information that your own thoughts will be buried.

Seven Every Week

I may not write a poem each day,
but seven every week.
Some people hardly say a word,
but they make up for it when they speak.
I hope I too have something to say,
some thoughtful point to make,
something that makes you think, something
that's worth the time it takes.

Poems

There are lots of poems in my head.
Most of them are songs.
If I were to write them here, though,
that would be just wrong.
The words would all be true and right
and smart, and witty and wise.
But these poems are by a band I like
and they'd be plagiarized.

This Here Poem

There are eleven poems that I have to write today.
I'm sure that they exist if I can find the words to say.
Sometimes its hard to think of something meaningful that rhymes,
but the hardest part of all today will be to find the time.

Yesterday I probably could have written you a poem,
but my husband had a day off. He was actually at home.
And even if I had the time to write a poem again,
I certainly did not have time to write the needed ten!
The day before was Sunday, a restful writing time.
I could have written one poem, but not the needed nine.
On Saturday I had ideas. They probably were great.
But I did not write them down because they were one poem, not eight.
The day I needed seven poems, that sounded like a ton.
So, overwhelmed, I couldn't even write a single one.

But wait! The day I need to write just seven poems is now, today!
I was looking at the calendar-- I looked at April and at May!
February's shorter! Just eight poems late! What fun!
And now I'm down to seven because this here poem is done.

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.

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.

I'm Going To Write Poems

I'm going to write poems.
I'm going to sit on my butt and write poems.
I don't care what you say,
I don't care what you need,
I'm going to write poems for these people to read.

I'm going to write poems.
I'm going to look at this room I call home
and I'll find in this mess
something worth thoughtfulness.
I'm going to write poems and I'm not going to stress.

I'm going to write poems--
set my chair in the sun and write poems.
Cobwebs clear from my head,
welcome poetry instead.
I'm going to write poems that ought to be read.

I Would Have Never Known

You always eat in the middle of the night
but I should never complain.
When else would I stop and realize
these thoughts within my brain?
You eat and eat and go back to sleep,
but I'm left wide awake.
I'm hungry, too. (That's nothing new.)
I have a fast to break.
And I have hypotheses to try
and words to write into poems.
These midnight hours are full of ideas
I would have never known.