Nightly poems backlog 3
Dec. 17, 2012
Body betrayal is a challenge,
I don’t want to get along with the very thing that imprisons me.
But I blame the brain even more.
The way the memory lets go, and fog takes over.
I’ve lost my vocabulary, my ability to find the perfect word.
so I stutter and stammer out any that sound vaguely similar.
I remember my grandma,
upset, angry, almost in tears,
all over not being able to find her purse,
a smokescreen for her fear and disappointment in herself
when her memory was dancing away.
The cure is more human interaction,
fewer chats with the mirror,
but the cost is something my body cannot pay.
Dec. 18, 2012
Sick with flu.
Tired of pretending to be okay,
Pollyanna all day long.
But bearing one crack
makes the whole fall to pieces,
makes a mother’s worry show plain.
How to reconcile
being honest, feeling real
with a mother’s heartache
is the key to the universe.
Dec. 20, 2012
The trouble with ‘end of the world’ talk
is not being able to admit that
you wouldn’t mind if it did end.
Anything to save me from this
staring contest with the future,
from the long, hard trudge
of day after day after day.
Anything to save me from an exit
that would cause my family pain.
Dec. 21, 2012
Counting all the little joys.
New friends, new communities,
even if they only exist digitally.
Focus focus focus
and look ahead.
Find the smallest thing to look forward too
and hold onto that.
The days drag but the weeks and months fly away.
Dec. 23, 2012
When everything is pain
and touch is more pain,
can you find tenderness in sex?
Find those small bits.
unaffected islands in a sea of fire,
make them sing while
the rest of us burn.
A worthwhile extravagance paid for in spoons.
Dec. 25, 2012
A series of minor disasters,
leads to crying over ruined biscuits,
slumping in a haze of
brain and pain fog,
trying to maintain my position
as family baker.
All of it is wiped away
by one sweet act of a
one and a half year old,
who tried on the hat I made
without urging, stripping off
the more beautiful,
softer store bought affair.
All of it wiped away
by a four year old who
immediately wanted his
new book read, even though
it was long and technical, and
immediately played with a
knit ball over his fancy
store bought toys.
Sometimes I think they know just how much I need cheering up.
Body betrayal is a challenge,
I don’t want to get along with the very thing that imprisons me.
But I blame the brain even more.
The way the memory lets go, and fog takes over.
I’ve lost my vocabulary, my ability to find the perfect word.
so I stutter and stammer out any that sound vaguely similar.
I remember my grandma,
upset, angry, almost in tears,
all over not being able to find her purse,
a smokescreen for her fear and disappointment in herself
when her memory was dancing away.
The cure is more human interaction,
fewer chats with the mirror,
but the cost is something my body cannot pay.
Dec. 18, 2012
Sick with flu.
Tired of pretending to be okay,
Pollyanna all day long.
But bearing one crack
makes the whole fall to pieces,
makes a mother’s worry show plain.
How to reconcile
being honest, feeling real
with a mother’s heartache
is the key to the universe.
Dec. 20, 2012
The trouble with ‘end of the world’ talk
is not being able to admit that
you wouldn’t mind if it did end.
Anything to save me from this
staring contest with the future,
from the long, hard trudge
of day after day after day.
Anything to save me from an exit
that would cause my family pain.
Dec. 21, 2012
Counting all the little joys.
New friends, new communities,
even if they only exist digitally.
Focus focus focus
and look ahead.
Find the smallest thing to look forward too
and hold onto that.
The days drag but the weeks and months fly away.
Dec. 23, 2012
When everything is pain
and touch is more pain,
can you find tenderness in sex?
Find those small bits.
unaffected islands in a sea of fire,
make them sing while
the rest of us burn.
A worthwhile extravagance paid for in spoons.
Dec. 25, 2012
A series of minor disasters,
leads to crying over ruined biscuits,
slumping in a haze of
brain and pain fog,
trying to maintain my position
as family baker.
All of it is wiped away
by one sweet act of a
one and a half year old,
who tried on the hat I made
without urging, stripping off
the more beautiful,
softer store bought affair.
All of it wiped away
by a four year old who
immediately wanted his
new book read, even though
it was long and technical, and
immediately played with a
knit ball over his fancy
store bought toys.
Sometimes I think they know just how much I need cheering up.