It’s early (-ish) morning, my early-riser 3yo is up, the chickens have not been fed, and I am off to work in a couple of hours. It’s been a few days since I have written a poem. Maybe I’ll diddle something onto the page, just to keep up the energy of it. I want to try another glosa soon, but that will take more time than I have at the moment.
These last few days I have been obsessively reading a book written by a dear friend. She inspires me to not let it all go by without some work at capturing and interpreting it, making it my own, feeling out the meaning.
If I have learned anything through the process of writing a poem-a-day last month, it is that often the moments when I think I am just tossing off a little bit of nothing into the air, often those moments are the ones when some little bit of magic happens. Perhaps not the glossy, well-formed show-dog things, but I’m a fan of the open heart of the mutt myself. (Though I am eager to train up a few of these little mutts from the past month and see how well they do in the ring.)
I feel a little lost without an external poetry prompt. . .
I keep forgetting to mention how your smile made my heart dance
on that grey day last winter
I keep forgetting to tell you how, when you said curtain,
I felt scales fall from my eyes
I keep forgetting my name
I keep forgetting the steps of the dance you showed me
I keep forgetting the words to that song
I keep forgetting whether or not I have already written this poem,
it has been so many days in my heart
Mockingbird Chronicles 
I keep forgetting that time is what keeps everything
from happening at once.
I keep forgetting that once upon a time I noticed time
as more than the fingers of a clock,
I noticed fingers, I noticed hands.
I keep forgetting that it is the practice
that practices on us, that there is every perfection
and that there is none.
I keep forgetting what I thought I had learned,
setting aside my habitual stubbornness
and resisting change again
until I forget to resist
and remember to let it all in.
I keep forgetting the dream
where Susan saw me as a fish, and my scales
were disappearing into the new river.
I keep forgetting to worry
about what I do not understand.
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I keep forgetting to just put it out there
like a lure, like a bait,
for the Poet to catch
and swim with,
her scales shimmering
in the dappled creek
I keep forgetting to listen
for the mockingbird at dawn.
I keep forgetting to sit
here
in this moment
and this one
and this one.
I keep forgetting to read my life
word by word.
I keep forgetting to underline my favorite passages.
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why did that make me cry?…. i really don’t know… hmmmmm….
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