Thirty-seven moves in my married life.
I jumped into each new situation ready to make friends.
There is almost always something I like about everybody.
I drag them home to introduce them to my husband.
He’s not as fond of people as I am.
Now I had friends.
Bam!
We moved again.
One time a minister came to welcome me to the neighborhood.
She was too late. I had been there a month.
I was rude, because I was busy packing.
Moving again.
Another time my children got on a school bus with three gerbils.
To give them away, because we were moving across country.
Two enormous dogs and three cats were enough trouble for the car ride.
Moving became my way of life.
People asked if my husband was in the military.
They knew I wasn’t because I did not have combat boots.
He didn’t either, but no one knew him or me.
Because we were always moving.
His very bones smell of ocean
beard lashed with its salt
On land, rubber legs awkward
he gapes and he gawks
But rig him up a mast
billowy sails to go with it
Prow boldly juts forward ~
Thirty knots an hour, his ticket
Today was a thirty plus day said Lee
They come along sometimes
This means thirty-poems written by me
And only one of them has rhymes
My personal daily goal is ten
Which I have met since 2010.
almost thirty
barely grown
spent my twenties
learning bones
how they break
how they heal
how to tell
what pain is real
thought by now
i'd have it right
feet planted firm
my future bright
but the mirror shows
the same old face
chasing dreams
at the same old pace
bills stack high
the years fly fast
my childhood echoes
in the past
yet somehow i think
of that kid inside
who fears the dark
but he swears he’ll try
almost thirty
still unsure
measuring life
in less and more
less of doubt
more of trust
less of can't
more of must
learning that growing’s
not a rush
In three months I’ll turn thirty
And my sister will still be 25
Three months seems so long when
All you can think of
Is seeing those two little lines
Three months and you talk to his family
You’re married but they don’t recognize
That three months is too long
You can’t afford the trip but your trip into town is all
They talk about
Three months when they say that
Your dog’s at the end of his rope
But you’re hoping for more
Three months 90 days do you
Buy three packs of his favourite treat or four
Three months since you’ve last seen your friends and you’re craving
a long late night talking
and unless you reach out it’ll be
three more
and its all in my mind
that these last ten pounds all it takes is three months
parts of myself lost I swear they’ll be found
one month sober down I feel ty
and its all in my mind
another three months now
my family they don’t know how
so they say
its all in their minds
A year and three months thinking
Two lines is not the question of
When but how and how much
And its all in my mind
As I stand in the line
The doctor he says
My prescription is good for three months
Its thirty mp's and rising justin.' Theres foam uoon them
Waves.' Theres cracks deep in the planking justin I guess its
Time to pray.? But you arn't one for prayer; i reckon.?
Just what iv'e heard say.' I also hear of waverers justin?
Another twenty seats." A backlash now of fifty justin; whoh! It
Would knock you off your feet.' It could loosen up your
Bowels now justin..And that would really stink.' Although
Theres such stench, in the big house justin
Maybe they just won't blink? There are human sharks right
Left and centre..Their lifstyles under threat, they have also
Become hated justin.' True Canadians don't forget.' Also
They're true law see' justin..All rests in the ridings. All power
And strength.'reside.! Yet you waved it all good-bye
From davos justin..When you had clausie on your side.!
I have an appointment
To have a tooth yanked.
This lists pretty high
On the fears I have ranked.
So, natch, I am nervous
And needed a laugh,
Which has been supplied
By my better-ish half.
He told me – “Relax!”
As I work on my rhyme;
“You don’t have to leave yet
For tooth-hurty’s the time!”
As I look upward at the wooden door labeled 'My Demise',
I clearly see thirty-nine wooden steps on the rise.
Each step takes a minute to grasp what I'll leave behind,
With many memories and thoughts, to recall and unwind.
There are just sixty seconds to replay each precious step from my past.
Joys and sorrows, loves and losses, with sobs and laughter broadcast.
The first memories of childhood, growing up with family and friends.
Each a fleeting echo, highlighted in a telephoto lens.
Each step a treasure that soothes my weary flaying soul.
Building like a jig-saw puzzle to make the picture whole.
I'm like an old film editor, cutting and selecting,
The scenes of my life, beloved and cherished, collecting.
At the top of the stairs with thirty-nine stairs lies the door.
As I grab the handle I know: "Time's up!" "There's no more!"
When the doctor gave me his diagnosis,
He didn’t deliver a happy prognosis.
He told me I had just twelve months to go.
Not really the news I wanted to know.
Now almost a year has passed since that day.
I’ve just thirty-nine minutes to while away.
A final meal? Put the kettle on.
And I’ll boil an egg. That’s four minutes gone.
I’ll wash it down with a nice cup of tea
And, while I’m eating, I’ll watch T.V.
There’s a programme that lasts for thirty minutes
And, if I’m lucky, I’ll see all that’s in it.
It’s almost finished: just 2 minutes more.
But now I hear a knock at the door.
Ah, the credits are rolling; I’ve just survived.
My time is up. The Grim Reaper’s arrived.
I accepted the sentence, handed down by the judge,
got thirty-nine minutes to live; he wouldn't budge.
I should read more carefully, but I understand,
just one line per minute is all he will demand.
I wish I had time to write down every song
to play at my funeral, so folks can sing along.
There's a lot of things to say - things I never told.
There ain't much time left, no more reason to withhold.
Thank you, I'm sorry. I love you. That covers it.
I would elaborate, but time does not permit.
So, now, I'm a happy man, and can die in peace.
Wait! I'm not, somethin's gonna cause my life to cease!
Could it be an anvil or piano from above?
Maybe someone will shoot or just give me a shove.
Funny how words can take a life, they have such weight -
but if so, they can give it back, now, ain't that great?
So, the first thing I'll tell you, without more ado -
thanks, I'm sorry, and most of all, I love you.
Thirty-three, what a wonderful age to be,
Not only is it alliterative, but,
Funny; geometrically.
Putting this frivolity aside.
You are a wise sage, a visionary,
A much-appreciated inspiration to human awareness,
Leaving your mother and me,
In awe of your amazing accomplishments.
it is four- thirty-eight a.m..
I was not aware until I heard the loud knock.
Bam.
at the front door
next to my recliner
I glanced at the clock.
Four-thirty-eight a.m.
BAM
BAM
two more loud angry-sounding knocks.
I froze for a couple of minutes.
who would be out there?
If I answered the door, would I be sealing my fate?
Would I be annihilated?
I had to walk in front of the picture window to get out of my chair
the curtains were wide open.
I expected to see a face; I knew it would frighten me.
I peeked out the small glass window in my front door.
A small raccoon was staring at me.
He was drinking the dog’s water
I saw no person whatsoever.
My husband was awake by now.
He wanted to know who had knocked so hard on the front door.
I looked up “ghost knocks”.
There are many stories about them.
I truly do not think it was a person.
My husband thinks it was the raccoon.
I do not.
this was the knock of an angry grown man.
we may never know.
outside my front door
millions of raindrops fall down
a distant rumble
Run headlong into it, your life
for this time belongs only to you..
today may be the day your hurting soul says 'let me go'
while another voice says 'please hold'.
and I hope you do..
Others may disagree,
pay no heed, they can't afford to lose
not again,
leave them for the living..
someone's out there rooting for you
that's a certainty
tho' so easy to take and stop giving.
Fate may play aces over eights on you anyway
you say let it, come what may..
believe in yourself, as I believe in you.
You gotta catch the 8:30 train to WTC One?
a lesson in a time honored vow.
Some other's sick and twisted dream won that day..
hope only peace reigns there now.
When she gave birth to you, your mom
lay resting in her bed
and wondered what you would be like
three decades up ahead.
She thought you might decide to be
a monk withdrawn from life.
You'd ponder all the mysteries
alone and far from strife.
Perhaps you'd be a bon vivant —
pursuing mirth and wine.
You'd burn through life like through a wick,
but that would be just fine.
Or you'd select a scholar's path —
a thinker deep in thought.
You'd spend your days reflecting on
what matters and does not.
Your mother would not mind if you
became the artsy type,
creating paintings, songs or yarns
and puffing on a pipe.
But then you might elect to be
political perchance.
You'd run for office and proclaim
this or another stance.
A man of science in a lab
would not have put her off.
A Nobel prize is not a goal
at which good mothers scoff.
What she could not have guessed back then
but what has since come true
is that it took you thirty years
to just emerge as... you.
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