mirror, mirror

who is the girl, then?
fair, freckly, a little on the thin side,
balled up in a winter sweater,
slippers, staring at a screen
the calendar, the weather, the options,
remembering how yesterday,
the wind caught her laterally,
buoyed her speed on rollerblades,
gave her the gift of a dull ache
in her ankles, a beating heart,
red cheeks and breathlessness,
and how quickly that disappeared,
this morning, waking up groggy,
eyes burning, neck sore, lost
just a little, but again, and that is
what really burns the most,
the defeated way the girl looks
into the mirror, wiping her face,
staring at two shifty eyes
who don't want to look this close,
so she turns, back to the drawing board,
coffee, inching along the day's stiffness,
its lack of air, poignancy, bravado,
glancing at the calendar, wishing for
clarity, thrill, purpose, transportation
from the couch, the stillness of the bed,
and she knows
she knows
it can only come from here, inside,
she holds the embers of the fire,
she maintains the lighthouse
she tends the roots,
and even if she's less than magnificent
at the plow, the hearth,
she is loyal to the garden always,
so despite the winter atrophy she
leans a little into the wind, into words,
into the small pockets of love
just wide enough to tuck into,
and even now, shallow-breathed,
shifty-eyed, fractious, minor-key,
she recognizes what must still be beautiful,
the shadows from which
light, inevitably, erupts.

what I shouldn't be thinking on christmas morning

is it me
or is something still missing
from this picture
even though
dogs close by
lover in another room
coffee hot, slippers on
pillows all in a row on the couch
holiday, family, full belly
alignment, house, new striped socks

something nevertheless
what exactly
noticeable, disagreeable
something in me not quite
comfortable with all this
symmetry, wanting
the gravitation pull,
the seesaw, teetering
the open-necked plunge
of longing
imprecise, graceless
luscious, ludicrous
my own garden
to worm into
and devour.

nose to the grindstone

When I was in school, I used to love vacations (of course, who didn't?). I used to count down the days until I was finally free. I would dream about the endless swaths of time I would have once vacation arrived, all those hours doing nothing. I couldn't wait until these breaks, mostly because I worked really hard in school and I needed the space to relax and recoup.

As a freelance writer, though, I don't take too kindly to my downtimes, those stretches of indeterminate time between projects. These "vacations" leave me unsettled and anxious, but I know it's because I never quite know when they'll be over. - Once I finish a project, I wonder when my next job is going to come, how I can network, with whom, and is it time to pay the rent already?

Peraps its not even the anxiousness so much as it is an increased sense of loneliness & isolation, a heightened fear and impatience around work and - in general - the big questions about productivity, financial independence, & success. So it's no wonder that during these downtimes (like now), when I've met my deadlines and completed my various projects, that I feel the need to keep myself occupied and fulfilled with "personal" work, whether it's the stuff that's been on my to-do list for awhile or some new idea I want to brainstorm into fruition.

The thing is, I'm not even that excited to do what - for all intents and purposes - should be a fun and stimulating slew of projects. It's like I don't quite know what to do with myself without having my nose to the grindstone. I feel at a loss for words even, feel my own brain turn to mush, and am in the midst of a kind aimlessness that feels weighty, bulging, unnseemly. It's like having a picture taken at your worst possible angle.

And so, December.

A kind of quiet is heralding the end of the year and again, I am challenged by this stretch of a relatively blank calendar before me and once again, look at my to-do list, investigate project ideas, and basically think up of ways to occupy myself until the next client comes knocking.

Of course, at the heart of it, I know I should be kind to myself. Take it easy. Rest. Eat well. Take long walks without worrying about having to get back to a pending deadline. This is the time to be paying attention to uncalendered moments, sliding into the couch with a book and a cup of tea, letting the weather outside turn grey and cold and staying put when it gets dark. This is the time for a kind of turning in, a re-acquaintance with the part of myself that needs to start things over again every so often, that needs a blank slate, silence, stretching.

And as strange as it seems (and oppositional to what my inner judge would like me to do), I am going to try to put it all down. I'm going to try and rest. Let my arms go. Let the pen drop. Give my feet a place to relax. Give my brain a break. And instead, listen to my little nephew as he babbles and burbles his way through an afternoon. Maybe if I bend close enough, I'll be able to understand what he's saying.

letting the rope go slack

the spine is stiff from staying straight
the eyes, half-mast, can't bear the weight,
the feet, too slow, are losing gait,
the muscles stop attack.

the hips can't move, the arms lie pinned
the hair has stiffened in the wind
the lungs fall short, unlocked, untwinned
there is no choice but back.

and yet, the act of turning aches
the sharper angles, harsher stakes
the swivel that the body makes
these sudden exits lack.

instead, just lose the grip you gave
resist the plunge to swim or save
sometimes the thing that makes you brave
is to let the rope go slack.

forest for the trees

mistaken turns
and bad directions
stove-top burns
and ear infections
misbehavior
dogs off trails
losing favor
never fails
bad hair morning
sleepless night
traffic warning
nothing's right
stains that stick
and frigid air
smiles that trick
it's never fair
i claw my way
through all the muck
my feet in clay
can't get unstuck
my eyes cast down
my heart in trouble
a path to town
lost in the rubble

and from the glass
the dust, obscure
the view (first-class)
looks grey, unsure
the sun, its poorest,
fails to please
how is there forest
in these trees?

and yet, it's clear
(although I'm wary)
the dirt that's here
just temporary
no fastened grip
no extra meaning
a minor strip
that just needs cleaning

or this: the flaws
are meant to seethe
and give brief pause
with which to breathe
the dusty windows -
needed jumble -
God always knows
to keep me humble.