Sleep won’t come and my mind’s on fire.
Each mistake replayed and everything feels dire.
A worry for every assignment, a worry for every chore.
They make me question my own judgment,
and it’s exasperating me to the core.
Avoid caffeine and let things go,
some Namaste and still my restless mind is my foe.
Make a list and count those sheep,
still the morning comes with very little sleep.
My problems are small I say again and again,
still they wash over me like an unwanted friend.
I search for balance and a simple life,
but still I stress and am full of strife.
Pick a path and make it mine,
but which one, I don’t want “just fine”.
Up all night and I am beginning to tire.
Still sleep won’t come cause my mind’s on fire.
The little menehune that sit upon my shelf,
smiling up at me trying to remind me to laugh at my self.
They used to sit among the clowns,
always calling me to get them down.
Smiling big with a crinkle near their eyes,
They remind me of better days and always sunny skies.
Across the great Pacific to our tiny town,
so exotic I never wanted to put them down.
A tchotchke to some, but a memory I will always treasure.
You see they belonged to my grandmother and will forever bring me pleasure.
It’s a small world full of friends I haven’t met.
A smile and hello could lead to things I never dreamt.
I’ve gotta get out of the house and remove my shell.
Most people are friendly and won’t cast an evil spell.
I sit on my octopus bench and watch my little slice of the world go by.
Why did it take so long to stop, rest and wonder at the sky.
A mother and daughter stride around the light pole.
The red-haired girl takes her pink tailed pooch on a stroll.
A cheese puff from the Peddler and coffee in my hand.
Nothing could make this day better, but a visit with a new friend.
A light breeze blows in and the smell of indian food wafts past my nose.
Store front windows and doors open, including the Compass Rose.
My little village bustles with activity and basks in the sun.
I’ll enjoy this day, relax and smile at everyone.
Those unasked questions with answers never revealed.
Those questions haunt me and now with death forever sealed.
Why didn’t you ask a friend will say.
Because I always thought I’d have a chance another day.
I live with regret and not just a chosen few.
Those unasked questions stunt my life and dim my view.
A better daughter and more faithful friend,
what a different relationship it could have been.
Some chances lost, but other still remain.
So I’ll ask those questions now without refrain.
Yes, I played in the band.
And band geek was my brand.
A solo was my shinning moment,
because I could not sing a single note yet.
Yankee doodle our trio trilled,
and the crowd was pleased and smiled and thrilled.
Scales, cords and rhythms practiced.
Then I had to learn them all again backwards.
Amongst my group of music spastics,
I thought my world was just fantastic.
I played the oboe, the flute and the tenor sax,
it’s no wonder it took me so long to have sex.
I marched in the band with my big drum,
So much excitement I forgot my hat, how dumb.
Music still give me chills and exhilaration,
I miss those days of musical exaltation.
Yes, I played in the band,
and “band geek” is still my brand!
Inspiration interrupted by the work that I must do.
My imagination dashed and now I’m in a stew.
Creativity quashed before the takeoff of its flight.
Will I ever get time to write or is a job my continued plight?
I try to steal away for a minute, an hour or a day;
but working to earn money is always in my way.
Am I too self-indulgent and devoted to my own cause?
If I don’t look out for myself, who will, Rudolph and Santa Claus?
At times no energy, no hope, nor motivation.
I just exist with a hatred of my current vocation.
I need some time to write without interruption.
A little time is all I ask for my sanity’s salvation.
I want and need my quiet time to think and write and be.
A tiny place in the world where I alone am enough and have time wonder, rest and see.
With a few moments to breathe and take care of myself because I am more fragile than I seem.
I worry too much about how I’m seen and what you think and if I came across as mean.
I have never felt I was good enough, even if I appear strong and smart and tough.
I don’t have children and never shall, but I do love kids and your will do nicely if I ever need a pal.
To those I love and those I’m with, I care and give and empathize.
My expectations are so high, it’s no wonder my disappointments are piled to the sky.
A little piece of me is all that’s left, so leave me be, that’s all you get.
I have really been enjoying writing and reading poetry recently and found this very cool blog with a variety of writers submitting their poems called the Poet’s Corner curated by Harry. Harry is retired and now has four different blogs that I can find including Poet’s Corner, it must keep him off the streets and out of the pubs.
I asked if I could submit a few of my poems and Harry has allowed me to participate. I have submitted three of my poems so far No Breath, Dad and Obligation Moon and have gotten a few likes for each. I have a couple of more that I am going to submit and am working on a couple of new ones too.
Do you write poems?
Did you know a new Poet Laureate was just name by the Library of Congress?
What is a poet laureate? Wikipedia describes the United States Library of Congress Poet Laureate, formerly the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress duties and remuneration;
“Laureates receive a US$35,000 stipend and are given the responsibility of overseeing an ongoing series of poetry readings and lectures at the library, and a charge to promote poetry. No other duties are specified, and laureates are not required to compose for government events or in praise of government officials. However, after the terrorist attacks in New York, Washington, D.C. and Pennsylvania on September 11, 2001, the then Poet Laureate, Billy Collins, was asked to write a poem to be read in front of a special joint session of Congress. Collins wrote “The Names” which he read on September 6, 2002, which is available in streaming audio and video..<..> When the $35,000 stipend was instituted, the amount was quite large and was intended to allow the poet laureate to abandon worries about earning a living and devote his or her time entirely to writing poetry. That amount has remained the same, so the intent of making it a nice living for a poet is no longer being fulfilled. Now it functions as a bonus for a poet who usually is teaching at a university and earns the bulk of his or her living that way.”
The newly minted American Poet Laureate is Charles Wright from the state of Tennessee. He and previous laureates are described in a New York Times article;
“Mr. Wright, who was born in Pickwick Dam, Tenn., not far from the Civil War battlefield at Shiloh, succeeds another Southerner, Natasha Trethewey. But Mr. Wright’s work — oblique meditations on “language, landscape and the idea of God,” as he once summed up his themes — could not be more different from Ms. Trethewey’s evocations of the forgotten African-American lives, or from the Whitmanesque poems about working-class Detroit by the previous laureate, Philip Levine.”
“Mr. Wright, 78, a retired professor at the University of Virginia, has already won just about every other honor in the poetry world, including the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, the Bollingen Prize and the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize.”
Until now I’ve never read Mr. Wright’s poetry nor to be honest heard of his work, which given his prolific writing and obvious success is sad. But now that I am writing a few poems and rhymes I feel compelled to seek some of his writing out along with that of the previous poet laureate’s. I like that our government is supporting this type of artist, even if it is very modestly in this age of big paychecks. I wish him luck and hope that he inspires a few more poets to start on their writing path.
Do you have a favorite poet?
He has no breath and he takes it slow,
it frustrates him because he so wants to go.
He’s always played hard and was a ladies man,
his charms are not gone, someday he’ll understand.
He packs his air and works to breathe,
So young of heart he still wants to speed.
For one “born ready” this is a bitter pill,
these golden years suck and are going to take some skill.
Change has come to the one I love,
he’s out of breath and his lungs are done.
The virile man he fears has gone,
but I assure him he is very, very wrong.
Sometimes he fears this breath will be his last,
those player days are catching up from his checkered past.
It worries him that he might hear death,
still he says “fuck you” and catches his breath.
He’s watched the others who’ve gone before,
he’s seen the future and the prognosis can be poor.
Enjoy this day, its a gift to you
Waste it away at your own peril, fool.