Staring into space

I'm in the writing stage where you spend a lot of time staring off into space. I think it's the stage that most confuses my husband. He's a do-er and this part of writing looks like a lot of nothing.


It's kind of like cooking, if your ingredients were all invisible and stewing in one giant pot. You stir and stir and stir...some things splash out and you clean them up; other things meld together and become yumminess. And after awhile, it's time to put it in the oven to bake and then you really get started.

Almost there, almost.

Though compared to these authors, my writing process seems downright calm and collected.

I'm trying to be fairly organized -- so I'm thinking, then outlining, then writing. I pretty much go from chapter one on down the road, periodically with brief detours into little snippets. But other than that, I'm pretty straightforward. No writing in the tub, though I do think of stuff in the shower.

Sometimes Happier

I'm happier sometimes
and sometimes not...
be happier still
if I were better...
but I'm not.

Don't think I haven't tried;
it just isn't in me
to be better...
but happier, that I could probably do.

So There.

Okay, so I'm all caught up now. I posted all the poems I had on Facebook and put them here. Some with dates, until I got lazy and just posted the poems instead. Ah, well.

I'll try to be more regular now. At posting, that is.

No Editing

I used to be a poet...
wrapping my teenage self in poetry
larking about with words, o glorious, vain glorious words...

a long time now,
since a poem
has sprung forth
fully formed, half-assed, or otherwise
from me

perhaps my soul has become stilted
and steeped
in the mundane inanities of the life that lives in my head;
that endless stream of things to do, things to be said

checklists make terrible poems

Some Days

Some days,
I'm just not there
not here, not there,
not anywhere

Living in my head
can be crazy wonderful &
desperately dull
and everything inbetween the lines

Some days,
I'm just stringing together
one piece of me at a time
endlessly reaching out for that future I can't see

Trying to be
that me
everyone else seems to think I am
and everything inbetween

Some days,
I should just shut up.

One a day

One of these a day
will surely do some good...
Opening up the silly gates
and letting it all flood out

After all, I'm awash
in mismatched metaphors
and synonyms I don't need...
Not to mention all those adverbs just lying around

Mommy Day

I'm going to have a good day today
damn the torpedoes
and all of that

Perhaps--
nothing will get done,
no decisions will be made

But--
there will be hugs
and kisses and that irrepressible pitter patter of Happy Max Feet

Oh Sleepyhead

Before I was a mommy,
there was this thing called sleep
I knew it -- and loved it, really,
(don't tell the husband)
but I took it for granted;
stopped bringing it flowers,
didn't look up from what I was reading
when it came calling.
And now, look at me now,
the baby has stolen it away
and I'm begging at the window
for just one more taste
from that sweet slumbering wellspring.
One only misses a love affair
once it is over.

I don't like to rhyme

I'm not a rhyming poet;
heck, I'm not much of a poet at all.
but I hate to rhyme...
it makes me feel silly
and inadequate
and stuck...what if I want to talk about oranges?
Or pickles?
I'd be trapped making references to Don Rickles
(not that there's anything wrong with him;
he's funny in his own way...
but a poem about him? No, no...I'd say 'no way'
but then I'd be rhyming again
and let's not go there...)
There are poets out there
that can make beautiful rhymes...
twisting their stanzas into
intricate little works of art.
But I am a clumsy poet--
and lazy, true--
So I am quite happy to leave
all the rhyming to you.

Some Days

Some days,
I wish I drank coffee.

Today, I wish
I had a double espresso
with an extra shot of caffeine.

Unnecessary baggage (I've reached the weight limit)

there's a lot of chaos
inherent in every life.
lately...
I feel surrounded in
a maelstrom of
...stuff and things

too much

I want to purge
and diverge and
shed my normal skin
get rid of baggage...
the weight of which
holds me earthbound
and gagged

I need to lose myself...
lose myself to find myself
such a cliche
but so true

I want to breathe free