Nine months ago,
I packed up the life that I knew,
And traded it in for something new.
It’s taken me all of eight months
To realize I made the best decision.
There’s no going back
To running from everything.
Or wondering how long or how far
I can make it before coming to town again.
Because I have found a new home
Where the strum of the crickets,
And the chorus of the cattle
Keep the night alive around here.
This places surrounds me with
Healthy love,
Healthy friendships,
Healthy habits.
And I feel more comfortable
Than I ever have.
After the woman at the bathhouse
told me about the 20-foot-long snake
that might block my path
on the way to Ogle Lake,
I decided that I’m not that crazy
about hiking and I don’t really care
about seeing a body of water
that might be checking me out,
up and down, to see if I might
want to drown, and is guarded
by a 20-foot-long snake
and we won’t even talk about
what’s going on with that.
so ADD online
looking out the first window
distracted by bird talk
then the fourth window
actually outside
vireos bringing arguments
to all the lined up friends
on wires of transmission
knowing the certainty
of being voted down
no arguments for air water
nor getting passage
through the golden glue,
the world’s speech defect
easily translated
by the merlin app
who who who
picks out barn owl
over the irristible bulldozer
wakes up every morning at the same time. She doesn’t
even have to set her alarm. You can count on her like
that. She is always early to work. Exercises regularly,
even makes good food choices. Yep, she’s a devout
water drinker. She spends her days helping others have
a good day. She tells decent jokes, dances frequently, is quick
to lend a hand. Dependable. Yes, you could say, Depression
is definitely dependable. Her house is tidy. She cares for the
yard, walks her dogs, even does her laundry weekly. She makes
it a point to check on friends regularly. Well, yes there are a few
things she’s let slip over the past few years. Crying, laughing,
anger, joy, feeling sad, you know, just the typical things. But she
does get her recommended eight hours each night. Says her prayers.
Recites her gratitude list. All in all, Depression makes it all work
the best she can. She’s dependable, like that.
Plates and silverware clack and clang
the children push and pull the doorbell string until it rang
Baked bread burns– forgotten in the oven
once again, she’s too distracted and never learns
Conversation buzzes across the table
Voices rise and fall with laughter
and silence follows food-stuffed mouths,
with stories breaking through as soon as we’re able
To share this gift of family today
celebrating fathers I’m grateful have after years I chased away
Wear sunglasses
to waterproof your expression
horizon chaser, sunset catcher.
Plentiful misery
shades scattered tested bones—
toad coyote cactus mouse beagle
while excited eyes & dancing voices
will bake you with the heats
of once daily Jardiance,
and your way Cologuard.
My irregular heartbeat
doesn’t need Eliquis,
or even Paxlovid.
Just Pax
illuminated by
red and yellow sky.
Used to knock out
a thousand words a day
no matter what was going on.
Now my insides
twist and shrivel up
when asked about my progress.
Touching notebooks today
is like an unavoidable shock
of failure, helplessness, inadequacy.
Even a simple poem
becomes a mountainous hurdle
I’m steadily losing faith that I can leap.
It’s dangerous, a friend tells me,
when things that are your passion
start to feel more like hard work, labor.
For any writing to be this hard
something fundamental inside me
must be shifted, my balance completely awry.
I’ve never been strong, just resilient
but resiliency eventually starts running dry.
The bigger man collapses; the high road bridge is out.
Risks are not worth taking,
effort is not worth expending;
the deception of not trying for my own safety.
Too many negative experiences,
too many moments of powerlessness.
Nothing is there to feed back into spirit
and that’s why, at day’s end
no coping mechanism can fully replace
the immeasurable value of a solid human connection.
We become our own implosions,
not because we choose to but because
it’s the logical end to too much self-reliance.
I need to dig deep to find this flaw
but I must also remain conscious of answers
that lay somewhere just outside myself and my world.
To unlearn failure.
To unlearn giving up.
To unlearn meaninglessness.
Apparently 37 is the year.
I truly thought I would hit 40
And freak out
Do all that sports-car-plastic-surgery-whirlwind trip to France- malarkey
…ok, no plastic surgery.
That’s just a step too far.
But 40!
That was the year I made time
A slot for existential crisis
Next to motherhood and a new car.
But as always I guess
I’m impatient
Or the universe is
Because here we are at 37
A newly single mother
With dramatic bangs
About to dye her hair red
About to buy that dress
About to spend far too much money
On an experience just for her
Which she will surely twist in guilt for
But will love every second of
And it’s not death I’m chasing
He’ll come to me, the sly dog,
But life rather.
There’s a lot of that shit out there
And at 37 I want some.
Maybe a tattoo, too…
What do you think?
