The Return of the Prodigal Blogger: Meditations on the life of a non-poet

Well, it's been a while! I promise I do exist and I have actually been having some very unremarkable adventures lately, but what can I say? I'm just going to have to be better at blogging more regularly. Today I would like to share with you some poems I've been working on for my creative writing class. This is my disclaimer: I'm not much of a poet, so don't get too excited or you'll be sorely disappointed, but what are blogs for if not to make a fool of yourself, right? Here it goes ...

Too Small

While my big brother

plays basketball with

his friends, I sit on the edge

of the lawn, watching

Wondering

Will I ever be Big enough?

Big enough to keep the steady rhythm

of the game, running

panting springing, pouncing –

Into the net. Swish, din, pat pat pat, shh.

Big enough to break away

from the force of gravity,

leap into the air, spinning

like a dance.

Big enough to feel the slap

of my brother’s hand on my back,

to laugh at his jokes,

to see him laugh at mine.

Big enough.

Then my big brother walks

over to my little corner, lifts

me on his shoulders, places the ball

between my two hands, too small.

My big brother and I

walk over to the hoop.

“There it is.

Take the shot.”

Big enough.

Swish, din, pat pat pat, shh.

Little girl

Little girls grow like daisies in spring,

dancing their way with arms reaching out as far as they can go.

Count the sun beams and the smiles that they bring

and you’ll be counting past the grown-up years but still, you will not know.

Somewhere in the process of counting bright smiles and sunny rays,

a little girl may just lose sight, over too-long miles and too-short days,

of the girl that she had been and the daisies she would pick,

‘till the little girl becomes lost in big thoughts and long lists

and the loudest sound heard is tick-tock-tick

and of all the things lost only one thing persists.

She dances her way still, though she stumbles a bit.

Through grown-up mazes, refuses to quit

But her arms strain under the weight of her books

and time drives her faster through a sea of unfamiliar faces.

She searches for friends, finds mostly strange looks

that question her quest as they go, counting paces.

Yes, the flooded crowd flows, a steady stream, trudging

Eyes locked in their place, minds cloudy with judging.

She dances her way still,

fixes a smile on her face, grasps a hope in her heart.

Perhaps some day she will

find her way out of the maze, stand apart.

At last the day’s ended and the little girl sighs

as she makes her way home with an eye to the skies.

Stumbles gently down the hill in the evening,

books closed, thoughts free,

Sees the clouds can’t bar the sun-beams streaming,

lighting mountain, rock, and tree.

So the little girl dancing from class to class

finds freedom in a blade of grass.

Grandpa said

Grandpa said patience

would always bring success,

except when it didn’t, because sometimes it wouldn’t,

and that was the way of things.

But he didn’t say it to me.

He whistled it to the fish in the stream as he sat on the bank,

waiting with patience.

Grandpa said a working man

would always find a way,

except when he didn’t, because sometimes he wouldn’t,

and that was the way of things.

But he didn’t say it to me.

He wore it in the palms of his hands as he did what he could,

a working man.

Grandpa said a man’s heart

would always lead him straight,

except when it didn’t, because sometimes it wouldn’t,

and that was the way of things.

But he didn’t say it to me.

He whispered the secret into Grandma’s ear, and took her hand in his,

a man’s heart.

Grandpa said life

would always be an adventure,

even when it wasn’t, because sometimes we can’t tell

that this is the way of things.

But he didn’t say it to me.

He showed it in stories, the life that he led,

his life that now discovers a new adventure.

He didn’t say it to me,

But I heard it, just the same.

Grandpa said patience,

a working man,

a man’s heart,

life is an adventure.

Learning to Love

My rocking horse sways

under shy infant fingers

until sure working hands

hold it, firm, standing still.

Another hand steadies me;

I lean back.

Hands lead to faces,

and faces to smiles

and hearts that glow with love

stronger than life.

I am drawn to the light of it,

my face to those faces

and breath escapes loudly

when my body follows –

much faster.

Another hand catches me;

I reach for it.

The hand that guided the wood

and shaped the small seat,

that smoothed the rough patches,

gave life to the horse,

and love.

It holds me, and I hold it.

My fingers close about that

hand. Five of mine and one of

his. He holds me

And I hold him.

My rocking horse sways

as I'm learning to love.

Waiting

Wide carpet, tall walls, spans of large tiles.

Motor walkways, ropes to keep people in line.

Rows of televisions, scrolling screens.

Signs that lead to more signs.

It is a world between worlds.

Crisp uniforms and hair tied back, neat.

Clear voices speak in controlled tones, a low buzz behind,

the Tower of Babble.

Cool air that is the air of everywhere

And nowhere, here in the

in-between

place

where people are

Waiting

waiting for friends and loved ones,

for co-workers and peers,

for home, for adventure, for success,

waiting.