woke up at 6:33 a.m.; tumbled out of bed, stumbled to the kitchen, but it was to take meds that allow me to function and not to pour myself a cup of ambition; turned on the ice maker; listened to the quiet of my little house for a total of four minutes before I heard my youngest’s alarm; opened bedroom doors and yelled for the occupants to go pee; scrolled past headline after headline that made fear tighten my lungs, again; peeked into bedrooms to make sure everyone was doing their thing; checked the weather app on my phone and thought about global warming; decided that sixty-five degrees (in January) would be warm enough to wear a linen shirt; drove past three MAGA flags, four churches, and the police station; thought about ordering Mexican food for dinner tonight; wondered if the owners and workers of our Mexican restaurant are afraid right now; settled in at work with my coffee; scrolled a few headlines; continued being an American in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave; ate lunch while scrolling social media; watched Renee Nicole Good, another American born in the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave, get executed by an ICE agent; sat in shock while comment after comment tried to spin her as a domestic terrorist; fixed a cup of coffee; blinked; blinked; swallowed; blinked; popped a violently sour candy into my mouth hoping to trick my nervous system and stop a panic attack; crunched the candy, popped another; blinked; swallowed; took a deep breath; found out that Renee was a mother and a poet; sobbed; went to the bathroom to wash my face; sat down at my desk and tried to get back to work; cried off and on the rest of the afternoon; prayed for my country and the world; made a donation and signed a petition; left a message with my representatives; put letters to representatives in the mail; blinked; called my sons as soon as they got home from school; felt helpless; drove home. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Category Archives: Poetry
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
Deity
Her hair floated around her face,
a barely there breeze lifting
each golden strand.
It caught in the crinkles
of her laughing eyes, in her eyelashes.
This is why I hate wearing my hair down,
she said, huffing and swiping the hair
away from her face, tucking it behind
her ear. Her Earrings caught the evening sun,
and for a moment she was a goddess of old,
full of love and light, wisdom and mirth;
a deity I could happily fall to my knees for.
“I love you,” I said, breath caught somewhere
between my lungs and my mouth.
I love you, she whispered, dropping her hands
to her sides. I love you, too.
And before she could blink, I had my hands
in her hair and my lips on her smile.
Sarah Stoltzfus Allen 