Tiny Warriors: for my son

My son plays with his
nerf pirate swords
and a toy gun bigger than
his legs that swoops and whoops
and zaps invisible aliens.

He stands in his fort and watches
out for the hordes of dangerous
---somethings.
Swings on his belly, arms extended--
shoots his laser gun into the sky.

At almost four, he still barely talks, but
this need, this
love, is built in.
Things with triggers.
Sharp edges.
Good vantage points.
Apparently.

Then he sits in his little blue
lawn chair and says he's
"a good boy."
Watches birds. Hears the music
of the universe
(so much better than I do).

Forget snips and snails.
Little boys are made of
gunpowder and muddy kisses.

201

Yesterday was my 200th post! If I were a TV show, I'd be in 200 episode fame; I'd get a big giant cake & lots of pictures after the episode of me eating said cake.

I'm not too sure I'll write a daily poem today. We'll see. It's a crazily busy weekend whenever Andrew works. And I'm not really feeling that inspired at this second. Perhaps that's what I'll write about-- the lack of inspiration. But I'll do it later.

Happy 200th post one post too late! To me! Yay Me!

Mud Dance

Weekends alone are different.
We dance more complicated single moves.
It's a troupe of three and music we alone hear.

We make the patterns up as we go along.
Break the rules often.
Make new rules, break them too.

There is so much joy in their faces when they
kick water or splash in the tub
cleaning off spring's bountiful mudliness.

My daughter squeals at an outside picnic.
My son runs faster than you can imagine
through the yard, chases invisible monsters.

I'm sure there are dramatic places I could be--
standing beneath the Eiffel tower, exploring the shops of New York--
But here, in my tiny back yard, happiness is this squish between the toes
this nap after sun, this soaking hug.

In Vain

I am not
writing a poem about you.

This is not like that Carly Simon song
and you're not hidden somewhere in the lyrics
in vague references to sweaters and jeans and
fond glances of yourself in the mirror
that only you and
I
would get.

Instead, I am writing about writing. (Again.)
About dissecting memories into
the perfect (or not so perfect) word.
A stanza. Hardly ever a rhyme-- they come out absurd. (See?)

Today I am writing about nothing,
something you were always very good
at feeling.

KAW April 3, 2009

******************************

Okay. I'm coming out of the poetry closet. I'm going to try to write a poem a day during National Poetry month. I guess there are organized efforts to do this. I did it yesterday by accident, then saw other folks talking about doing it on Facebook so thought I'd jump on the bandwagon. I'm sure many many days are going to suck, because I always suck at poetry when I force it, and almost always write about writing about poetry. But that's the part of THIS poem that I like-- the way it sneaks up on you at the end. That's my favorite way of writing a poem-- kind of like a sonnet's reversal, but not so formal and sonnet-y.

So then. We'll see if I can keep it going. Probably not. But it's worth the effort.

Momentous

A ten minute break.

A day washed clean
by early storms,
swept away with wind. Sitting
by the pond-- I watch.

One white heron
and a brown and white duck simply
stand. In the rapids,
fishing for the unlucky meal
swept into the current willy nilly
a fortuitious spot where the two ponds meet.

Yellow iris
cat
tail
last summer's scrubby wild bamboo
embroider
the bank.

Sleek. Beak slightly
open, its feathers ruffle,
crown flattens
in the wind.

Its black legs dipped in cold
spring runoff--

the wind speaks its own secrets.

The heron waits.

April 2, 2009--

***********************************************
At the Duck Pond, grateful for it.

I have this habit of writing poems on whatever is available to write. Sometimes this means a Wal Mart receipt, sometimes, especially, it means the covers (the blank white pages) of whatever book I am currently reading. This one is on the front blank white page of an old copy of Cold Mountain I'm reading. It was ten stolen moments while I waited to go pick up my son from school, and I like it. I am always grateful for those moments when something makes us turn off the radio & pay attention to the world.