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On This Normal Wednesday, I
woke up at 6:15; hit the snooze button twice; threw the covers back at 6:33; untangled Elijah’s rats’ nest head; fought with Elijah about his rats’ nest head; joked about Silas being the tallest one in the family; packed a lunch for myself; made coffee; gave up on my hair; prayed my children would be safe while they were away from me; reminded myself to be silent and know that God is God; wondered if maybe I’m wrong about God; chose to wear the turquoise earrings mom got for me on her trip to the Grand Canyon; tamped down the rage a Facebook post threatened to unleash; drove to work; watched the valley full of mist, the Methodist Church’s steeple and a cell phone tower the only things visible; crunched numbers and edited correspondence at my day job; tamped more rage down into the cave of my chest; wondered if my Jesus and my friend’s Jesus even know each other; thought about flipping tables; recited every Bible verse I could think of, each word a balm that somehow set my soul on fire; tamped down that fire because I’ve been taught to respect my elders; wondered how those elders helped raised me and how we ended up so different; wondered if those elders deserve my respect; read a headline about a school shooting; prayed my children would be safe; read the updates on the children who were injured in the last school shooting; prayed that my little town is as safe as everyone says; read a headline that a political activist had been shot on a college campus; tamped down the rage; cryed to my boss; tamped down the rage; wrote an essay about gun violence and the church; tamped down the rage; made coffee; ate lunch; put my hair in a ponytail; discussed Elijah’s progress with his occupational therapist; sent an email to a publisher; drove home; tamped down the rage; refused to talk about the events of the day because, what do you even say; tamped down the rage; looked up verses about pride; looked up verses about government; looked up verses about living in a broken world; put my children to bed; prayed that the Morgan County Schools in West Liberty, Kentucky are safer than all the other the schools in any other part of the country; watched a video of a political activitist being gunned down; watched people call him a martyr; ate dinner; took my meds; regretted watching a video of a political activist being gunned down; washed my face and brushed my teeth; crawled into bed; wept and knew
that Jesus did, too.
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Everywhere
“There shouldn’t be any pain today,”
she said, pushing her glasses
up the bridge of her nose and flicking
through paperwork on her clipboard.That’s good, I said, trying to get comfortable
being mostly naked
in front of a complete stranger.There shouldn’t be any pain today,
but I walked in with swollen joints
and a shoulder that won’t move.I’m already in pain.
There shouldn’t be any pain today,
but as I let her poke and prod
that frozen shoulder, it comes anyway.
I tell her it hurts.
“Well, you are pretty tight.”So, I press my lips together
and think about children starving
in some foreign country, my own country,
and how those pictures of babies with swollen
bellies and flies buzzing around
make me feel guilty;about moms who never get filled
Christmas stockings or time to themselves
and how they have to go back to work
mere days after giving birth
and how their children take all that in;about elections and gender identity
and church trauma and sin
and that secret that I’ve never told
but feels like a perpetual purple bruise
on the inside of my right thigh.There shouldn’t be any pain today.
But I think about people dying in Palestine
and Ukraine and the ghastly number of school
shootings that happen every year
and I hurt.“Where, exactly, does it hurt?” she asks
and I think about a poem I read somewhere
that asks the earth where it hurts
and the earth whisperseverywhere
everywhere
everywhere.But I don’t know this person,
and she just wants to know about my shoulder.
So, I unpress my lips and tell her,
exactly, where I’m having painin my shoulder and how lightning strikes
sizzle up and down my arm,
into my neck, traveling down my back,
dazzling me with the amount of
sparkling pain that can take over
one area of the body.I don’t mention anything else.
She doesn’t need to see my bleeding heart
for all the things that make me feel useless
spread out before her on her
physical therapy table.***
The poem referenced in my poem can be found here.
Photo by William Navarro on Unsplash -
Stepping into the Ring, Having Just Been Kicked Out of the Boys’ Competition, PYTHAGORAS OF SAMOOOOOOOOOOOS!!!!!!!!
There once was a Lickety Split
who knew how to take a hard hit.
He’d wiggle and shake,
refused all the brakes,
and got out of there, fast with his wit.
“His wit,” you ask and you scratch,
“is no good in a fisticuffs match.”
But he made them all dizzy
when he whirled in a tizzy
while spewing mathematical facts.
The aggressors were no good at sums,
they should have been sucking their thumbs.
They thought he’d gone crazy,
but always got hazy,
and with one calculated punch, they succumbed.***
This is based on a true-ish story. Historians disagree about the identity of Pythagoras of Samos, who won men’s boxing at the olympics (after he was kicked out of the boys competition because he was too effeminate). Some believe that this Pythagoras was the famed mathematician. Some believe that it’s a completely different dude. I like to think it was the mathematician.
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On November 6, 2024 I
woke up exhausted; stared at the ceiling for a full ten minutes before I reached for my phone to check the results; checked the results; stared at the ceiling for another ten minutes; got my children ready for school; thought about how people want to defund the department of education; got my children on the bus; thought about how the president-elect made fun of a disabled reporter and told his own nephew that he should let his special needs child die instead of wasting more money; fixed my usual quad shot latte; let the faces of family flick through my mind, knowing they have voted for someone who makes fun of people like my children and thinks they should die; thought about what to wear for the day; chose a black dress with green and white sneakers – mourning with a touch of whimsy (?), defiance (?), and hope (?) (I’m not sure about hope); thought about Russia and Ukraine and Israel and Palestine; took a long shower and used all the special, smell good products; dried my hair straight and put it in a bun; took my meds and doubled the anti-anxiety pill; filled up my water bottle; got dressed; cried a little bit when I couldn’t find the shoes that I wanted; cried even more when I found them; thought about what will happen if the conservatives get everything they want; thought about the art we might not get because artists are too tired right now; thought about the art we will get – artists digging deep and crying out; remembered that horrible recording where the president-elect bragged about grabbing a woman by the pussy; remembered him saying that he would protect women whether they wanted it or not; got in my car to go to work; found my daisy earrings in the pocket of my purse and put them on to remind me that hope, and daisies, can grow wherever you plant them, beside the road on rocky shoulders and in fields of rich, good soil; drove to work. Welcome to a new day.
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Middle-ish Age
or, Sonnet 2, if Old Bill Shakes had Considered Reality
When forty winters crown my aging head
and crow’s feet line the smile around my eyes,
my youth will start its journey down the drain,
and I don’t care who knows that I am old.
And if you ask me where my beauty lies
and where the perk of youth has run off to,
I’ll pull my glasses down my nose and free
the pent-up truth I’ve kept behind my teeth:
we’re sold the lie that beauty should endure
without a single dimple on our skin,
but beauty lies in pure embodiment
of simple joy in every season spent.
I do not covet spring, its blooming rose,
I’m well content in autumn’s golden clothes.***
I have been responding to and rewriting Shakespeare’s sonnets as a writing exercise. It’s been challenging and fun and makes me feel a bit…uh…conceited (is that the right word?). Anyway, I hope you love it! Read the original Sonnet 2 here.
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While Trying to Read a Novel on My First Free Afternoon in Months
I do not wish you death or pain or sorrow.
I do not wish for you to toil in fear,
but if you, dear friend, don’t leave until tomorrow,
I might be forced to kick you in the rear.
And since all you can do is interrupt,
I’ve started thinking of unpleasant scenes
that cause no harm, but really could disrupt
your peace, your comfort, and tranquility.
I hope you find yourself with sticky fingers
that thorough soapy scrubbing can’t erase.
I hope your silent stinker always lingers
and recognition makes you a disgrace.
May your socks always be bunched up at your heel,
and if you’d lose your voice that’d be ideal.It’s not that I dislike our friendly gabs.
I understand your need for frequent breaks,
but if you don’t hush I’ll feel the need to stab
my just licked finger into your slice of cake.
It’s possible that this may seem unkind,
to wish unpleasantness upon a friend.
And if you think my words should be refined
feel free to ignore me until the day’s dark end!
Please zip your lips and head to another space
so I can stop these hateful, annoying thoughts.
‘Cause I still want your cheeks to clench as you race
into a crowded bathroom with the trots.
Come back in a hour and I’ll be dandy and fine
I really just want to finish chapter nine.
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Augury
I wasn’t looking for witchy woo-woo
answers to life’s questions
in the parking lot of the Double Kwik
gas station on my way home from work,but it was there:
shining navy blue in the evening sun,
a single crow pecked at trash
that hadn’t made it to the proper receptacle.I searched the rest of the parking lot,
looking for another crow because everyone
knows that “one for sorrow”
is always a bad omen.After ten minutes standing in sweltering, July air,
I saw it perched on the sign advertising $3.89
a gallon for unleaded gas and $4.99 for diesel,
“two for mirth” making my muscles relax.It flew down to its partner and I knew right then
the second crow hadn’t replaced the first omen.
Sorrow is here with me, and I think it plans
to stick around awhile.But soon mirth will be back.
She hasn’t deserted me to forever black days,
I just need to look up
and be patient.
Photo by Chris F on Pexels.com -
Multivitamin
I’m forty years old
and my multivitamin is the best part
of my entire day.Well, that’s probably not exactly true.
I also really like the first sip of coffee,
the way I can see a cardinal at my bird feeder
as soon as I open my eyes in the morning,
and the way the sun filters through the curtains
in the evenings and makes my whole bed a golden nest.I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the smiles
I still get from my boys when I get home,
the jangling of ice in my favorite water cup,
and text messages from friends.But that multivitamin?
It tastes like childhood:
sour fruit snack gummies and books
read by flashlight well past bedtime,
mouth watering stares into bins of rainbow
colored candies that were scooped into brown
paper bags that I clutched in my little girl hands
and savored over every day of our summer vacation,
and standing in the candy aisle with my granny
while she picked out her favorite sugar free gum
and then let me pick out my favorite
sugar bursting chewy sweet.I didn’t realize when I turned forty that I would try
to relive all those favorite childhood things every morning,
but here we are:
giving up most of the super sugary treats in favor
of more grownup needs and taste buds,
trying to take care of an aging body
that now has a laundry list of medical diagnoses,
and whining about my liney eyes.But that multivitamin,
suggested by doctors to help my body do
what it is supposed to do?
Well, it may not keep me young, but it’s an honest
choice to keep going and to make sure
the girl I used to be sees all our
dreams come true. -
Dirty Laundry
You are grass-stained knees
and ketchup drips on church pants,
primary colored paint splashes on
school uniforms and socks that smell
like only little boy feet can smell,
red wine on a favorite blouse,
amorous stains on bed sheets,
sweat and motor oil soaked into
t-shirt cotton,
the good towels that have cleaned up
pirate bath time adventures.
You are dirt and love and tears,
blood and water mixing,
flowing into all things new.I hope you enjoyed this poem from my upcoming book, The Darks and the Lights. And I really hope you remember that beautiful things can be found in the ordinary. I really hope Tuesday is being nice. Try and make it a good one!
Make sure you preorder your very own copy and lock in that discounted rate!
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Wall
You say you’ve hit a mental wall,
sometimes a wall is there for rest.
Just lean against the brickwork sprawl,
you say you’ve hit a mental wall.
Please stop, there is no need to crawl
or push to be better than best.
You say you’ve hit a mental wall,
sometimes a wall is there for rest.
It may not always be real, but it's never a lie.
Sarah Stoltzfus Allen 