Day 27: Spare Change

What fool, she who trusts

in circumstance

to alter the course

of her history.

There’s no such thing

as spare change.

Day 26: Falling Behind Daily

Lather, rinse, repeat,

Never admit defeat.

But the muse is dumb

And the words won’t come,

And all my poems are incom—

Day 21: First Day

I’ve penned my whole name

(in blue or black ink)

more times this morning

than I care to think.

I’ve learned how to log in,

I’ve gotten one key,

I’ve chosen the first two

passwords of many.

I’ve been in the vault,

gotten robbery training,

completed extortion forms

(that took some explaining!)

I’ve read part of the handbook –

I’ll do that in stages –

the whole thing is well over

one hundred pages!

I’ve driven to Hillsboro,

hither and yon,

gone to “Culture Connection”

with Shawnee and John.

I’ve greeted some customers,

had nice interactions,

but couldn’t assist with

a single transaction.

I’ve asked many questions,

I’ve paid close attention

(though some of the answers

I’m forbidden to mention).

I’ve gotten a name badge,

this must be for real.

Ah, working again –

how good it does feel!

Day 16 (makeup): Don't Wait

(a makeup poem for Day 16, that I missed posting earlier)


 

There will always be

a reason to wait –

I’ll do that when…

after… as soon as…

This much will be enough…

Then it will be the right time…

“Why not?”

is the wrong question –

ask instead, “How?”

If it will bring you joy,

don't look for ways to put it off –

run toward it with open arms, shouting,

“at last!”

Day 20: Things I Know

In response to the NaPoWriMo.net prompt of the day, to write a poem stating the things you know.

Thirty days hath September,

April thirty poems.

A passport is required

for international travel,

but you can speak

as many languages as you like

without leaving home.

Breath is always

our first language.
(I know this because

Mary Oliver wrote it

and her words carry truth

as unassumingly as air.)

Fever dreams

in a foreign language

feel almost like poetry

until you awaken

and douse them

with cold water.

The proper use

of spelling, grammar

and punctuation (!)

is art, but only

because it is becoming lost.

Poetry is

what

we each

believe

it to be.

Thirty poems each,

times twelve friends, give (and) take,

equals… oh, I don’t know –

always just enough,

never too much.

Day 19: Bits and Pieces

Not really related to each other at all, just a few bits and bobs that have been rattling around my head today.

Some days

the poems don’t come easy

in the sunshine.

Sometimes it’s easier

to write in the rain.

A “single mom weekend”

appears to be what it takes

to get me to reach out,

grasping wildly at something

resembling a social life.

When does a thought become

so unspeakable

it can’t even be written?

How cloistered is

the poet’s heart, in truth?

Day 18: Remember This

(A "found poem" using quotes from "Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids" by Dr. Laura Markham.)

Every choice we make,

at core, is a move

toward either love

or fear.

Choose love.

The subconscious

thinks in pictures,

and it believes

whatever we tell it.

Choose love.

Studies show

that people who worry more

don’t actually gain insight

or solve problems

any better. They simply

make themselves

more unhappy.

Choose love.

All we need to do

is remember:

Connect.

Choose love.

It may seem impossible,

but if we feel

even the slightest desire

to turn things around,

we can grab it.

We don’t even have to know how.

We can just

choose love.