Tag Archives: 30×30

It isn’t – 1×30

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It isn’t comfortable or kind
and it doesn’t live in your chest.
or your head.
It doesn’t belong to logic

It isn’t grey or blue
and it isn’t light shades of pink
it isn’t pastel anything
it’s not a tint you know how to name.

It doesn’t sound like strings
or wind instruments
can’t be played out on keys
doesn’t belong to the bells.

It doesn’t live in the city,
or on any mountain peak.
It can’t be found on casual strolls
down side city streets.

Of course it is something, it has a title,
though, I’ve forgotten how to pronounce it.
couldn’t even sound it out,
buried  it too deep to remember.
prompt found on NaPoWriMO

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30×30-Day Four-Sometimes You Have to Walk Away

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I can hear you both,
when you talk about my son.
Eyes lowered, whispering under your breath.
You don’t think I know the context of the conversation?
How does she do it?
She doesn’t do enough.
I would do it different.
I wouldn’t let him get away with that.
Thank goodness he isn’t mine.

I only hope his hearing isn’t
as good as his mother’s.
How do I love such a creature as him?
You mean the most witty six-year-old you have ever met?
The one with the vocabulary that rivals my own,
I do it by asking him to tell me a story.
When he finishes he jumps up, grabs on to me
as if a Koala, tells this mama he loves her so.

I don’t do enough – you say this
because you have seen
just five minutes of us.
You are not there, as I scoop him off the floor
after the fifth tantrum of the day-
The one where at just six years old
he shouted,
“I hate my life,
you can’t control me”.
You are not there as I pull him into my arms
hold the boy still,
calm the nerves,
of the one who never grows that fast,
so that at six he still fits in my lap
assure him,
that his life isn’t so bad.

You would do it different?
Really, tell me how? Yell at him in public,
beat him till he was blue,
be less stern with him,
negotiate longer,
medicate him less,
or more?
Would you schedule more meetings with his teacher,
set up more med checks with his pediatrician,
would you change the whole diet of this family,
lock him in his room till he was eighteen?
Quit your job, school him at home?
Please tell me – what-
would you do?

Let him get away with what?
Having feelings,
noticing every last thing in the world,
stopping for every flower that looks different?
Punish him for his frustration,
tell him to bottle it away?
His energy, you would contain it?
His synapses-You would stop them for firing how?
Would you punish his frontal lobe cortex?
Tell it next time, it better shape up?

Thank goodness he isn’t yours?
Well yes,
Thank goodness he isn’t yours.
They say you get the children
you are supposed to,
and he was supposed to be mine.
As if you would even know
where to begin,
with someone as special as him.
But this time,
this time,
I am just going to have to walk away.

30×30- Day Three -Out of Luck

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Out of luck and out of time
she wondered what it meant to get old.
She had spent forty-eight of her sixty-six years
working harder than one should have to
to get by.
Marriage ended early when all she wanted to be
was a wife
She had been waitressing at this diner,
since she was eighteen years old
and luck was just something people
talked about in movies-
Or when the jackpot of the
powerball was getting high enough to send everyone into a tizzy
Luck was not something she was out of –
it couldn’t be, when it had never gotten to her yet.

She spent her days elbow deep in  other people’s meals
leftovers pushed into the trash
her commerce was a smile
and have a good day darlin’-
The only thing she had to sell was good will.

Thing was
she wouldn’t have it any other way –
the lucky are just waiting, she believed,
for the next best thing – she was
glad to know what was coming next.

Days starts with an alarm clock and
a cat hungry for its next meal
an email sent to her sister in Arizona,
set up in some new retirement community-
a text message to her grandson in college at
the nearby state school.

Her bones, feel harder these days,
Her frame carries less pounds than it should,
her customers always ask how she stays so thin,
how she avoids the pie.

She worked doubles  four days a week
had three days off.
Her extended family grew and shrank with the seasons
kids coming and  going for the busy months,
they used to call her ma,
the were starting to call her gram now.

Nightimes are quiet, books
and tv shows,
characters filled in for absent lovers
she didn’t mind-
that there was no one there to fill her evening –
Her first husband hadn’t been around much,
her second couldn’t let her go with out a
well placed bruise.

She hadn’t missed a day of work in ten years,
scheduled her time off in the slow months,
traveled to see her grand-babies.
She figured, she would die like this –
They would know she was gone when
she didn’t show up for her shift.

She didn’t have luck to run out of,
it was just something that hadn’t showed up yet.

On the Couch

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Stuck – softness of oversized pillows –
stained with six years of children taking over the house
Saturday, and the only thing
I am enjoying about the sun outside,
is the heat eeeking through the window.
I must move.
Move,
pace to be found in the way I used to run
Run, track under my feet
dirt under my cleats
sweat just beginning on my brow.

Eighteen years later, and the only vestige left of
My runner self is the shin splints I get when
I spend too much time shopping-
There is nothing easy about inspiration for movement-
I am no Nike commercial,
There is no Just Do It in me.

Instead there is a quiet want of a better me
of a need to be strong
and not just in some, you’re so tough
you always make it through,
type way,
but instead, in a,
you can leap tall buildings,
you can lift cars
you can be something that looks like some conception
of a super hero, front cover
of triathlon magazine.

And it’s not even that I want to win,
just finish,
get off the couch,
find myself  stronger
catch up to that earlier vestige of myself.

30×30 – Day One – From Start to Finish

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I am not one for straight lines,
or the easy way through.
The path has never been cleared for me.

Instead, I take shortcuts
or the long way around
sometimes, it takes me twice as long.

But I get there.
Sooner sometimes, rather than later.
Perhaps just a little banged up from the trail.

(note to readers, I am just doing this – forcing myself to write, regardless of what comes out, how unpolished, how incoherent and rough — just writing. . . every day for thirty days – that is all).