call it solitude
beneath a starless haze
add a distant city bus
and a thousand tires
rolling through downtown

an omelet
made with butter please
an iron table
a black sandwich sign near the curb
swinging just enough to be noticed

a man donning a red apron
washing the window table behind thick glass
(he's warm, unable to feel tonight's air
rush onto his eyelids)

"89" in bold type
clipped to a heavy purple ball
beside my computer
a green canvas purse
on damp cement
looped to my faded denims

and me, with hastily arranged hair
full of rubber bands
clips and hair spray
wrapped in darkness
and streetlight
entranced by a white screen
and an obsessive desire
to recreate one instant

for this moment, i am poetry

For years, my "right now" has been exceedingly beautiful. I am growing accustomed to serene days, lack of drama.

Still, my prayer is forever, "O God, I pray to always remember where I came from." This plea is my guard against ingratitude, hope that I may always understand a fellow traveler hunted by wounds inflicted when they were the innocent budding being, talking life in with few questions, unaware, blinded by inexperience.

I used to wander Chicago's streets, every day a slow walk to nowhere, wondering if ever I would be granted a reprieve, a release from the prison of my failed best intentions to "make it" in the world. With each measured step, I was also breathing in, observing without judgment, the world. I began to understand that the mental instability I believed to be a part of my being, had been given without my permission, not chosen, and therefore I could let go, little by little, day by day, gathering beauty and sense around me as a robe of light.

Many a stranger have I passed on the street, their faces revealing a hunger for sanity, a desire to lighten the load their life has become. If I am alone, clear, open, I am flooded with love, speaking in the quiet of my thoughts, "You are so dear."

I've been thinking about Ann Nichol's post, The First Cut.

Some thoughts have no closure.

We hang on to so much useless-to-us stuff, letting it camp in boxes, drawers, closet-backs, above cabinets, in a dank garage, on high storage shelves, in a neglected filing cabinet, even plain sight, in the form of never-to-be-opened-again-by-us books.

My dear and I wish to be minimalists (so far as inanimate objects we call ours), but getting there takes effort. Worth the work, but we dawdle, daunted by the prospect of voluntarily letting go neat things and the emotional tearing off of a band-aid so to speak.

I weigh 137 lbs, so says my father's bathroom scale. No mechanism can register the weight of accumulated matter that I keep around either because I'd rather not deal with sorting and properly parting with no-longer-needed items or from unhealthy attachments, as in the case of three Ikea drawers holding "spare" pens, most of them full of gunked up ink, pens we might "need" someday. Honestly I didn't know we had so many pens until yesterday when my son asked for helping putting up his cool new Pokemon poster and I went in search of thumb tacks.

Note to self: purge the pen supply please!

When it comes to writing implements, attachment may be too strong a word. But what of the cute baby clothes hanging around in a blue plastic box, high up on a shelf in a spare room. I'm attached to the memory of our boys wearing these precious fabrics and intend to dress our next child, should we have another, in the same beauty. I don't know where to draw the line.

Leo Buscaglia wrote of a people who move every six months when monsoon season arrives. How attached or pseudo-practical could one be when consuming waters come every year, demanding rafts be built, floating dwellings to live on until land is available once more. Yet, the big rain visits again in a few short months. I do not wish to live and move to the rhythm of extreme weather, but holding onto nothing but my family and a few truly necessary possessions does sound extraordinarily sane.

This day is 10 of 30 for my self-assigned clearing project. I sold a few cupcake pans and assorted kitchen supplies this morning and expect to part with more this afternoon and evening. Yesterday, we sold the bulk of our baking supplies to a minister and his wife. They have a large congregation and a church with two kitchens. Glad our wares will be put to good use.

This is my impatient space, wordy, antsy, prone to philosophical monologues. I'm on draft four, wishing a poem would begin already. Chicken, rice, peas, cheese and Curious George behind The Beatles don't produce poetic today.

Any number of positive comments could accurately be made about me, but not "She is patient." She is okay with that, impatience can look and act like determination. Today and yesterday, being less than acquiescent about waiting to see which way the wind blows, I'm not at my best. Fortunately I'm still ahead of myself this time last year, which is the goal, progress not perfection.

Yesterday I gave away a box of books, today a couple bags of clothes. I pulled all of our baking business supplies out of the spare bedroom where a generous path has now been carved through mostly ignored belongings. This is why I assigned myself thirty days. Discouragement can be lessened with small successes.

I spent three slow hours at the library this afternoon. My son was in Pokemon league and I was a fixture in a beautiful cafe surrounded by walls of windows. I investigated educational sites for home schooling, periodically eyed my other stunningly beautiful child as he played Lego Starwars, posted on craigslist, and visited southern-style with a friend who was also waiting for her son.

I kept checking and re-checking email to see if a certain other friend wanted a stack of books I messaged her about. I was hoping she would say that yes, she wanted them and could I please drop them off today. Then I would have easily fulfilled my self-assigned task of giving away at least one item from our home. No reply before leaving the library.

I had a plan B just in case. In a small white bag I had placed a pair of kid-sized lace up sneakers, several black metal bookends, and two decorative candle platforms. After Pokemon club, we drove to Goodwill to deliver this small offering. As I walked up to the donation dock, three guys jubilantly informed me that I came just in time as they were about to close. I handed off that used gift with three minutes to spare.

After dropping a couple of very cute boys at their grandparent's house, I went home for a quiet hour. The hoped for email had arrived. My friend does want those books I left in the truck. At least I have a clear plan for one of the remaining twenty seven days of purging!

It's just after 9:30pm, we're eating a juicy cantaloupe, and the boys are winding up a good day day with a loud Pokemon battle. I've wandered in and out of the spare room several times. I'm beginning to figure out what can go tomorrow. Clothes? Decorations we're hoping to give to people who will really enjoy them? Will someone respond to my freecycle post and cart away more garage inhabitants?

Either way, spring is here. I'm looking forward to afternoon bike rides to the health food store, post office, or in wide circles around town. That's my alone time, but also reconnecting, with what is real and always nearer than I'm aware of when I sit in a sheltering vehicle, like a warm breeze, faces of children who walk in finger-snapping packs, a close up squirrel chase, or any number of nearly touchable scenes.

Mercilessness is needed here.

Mind tricks hold me back, ask me to consider the emotional recourse of letting go, fail to properly inform me of how liberated, lighter, I always feel when another item finds a home away from mine.

So I now assign myself a new 30 in 30. Everyday for the next 30 days, including today, I will clear at least one unneeded item from our home.

Yesterday it was a pop-up camper, carried away by three guys and a big pickup truck (that got this ball rolling). Tomorrow a freezer. I'll have to make a concerted effort to find today's cast away item (items? she asks hopefully).

Blogging boring sorts my thoughts. Beware, I may blog about this purging 30 in 30.

Fringy suede boots on for fun, fresh decaf latte and six beautiful almond chocolate chip cookies (I can eat) are inches from my right hand. I'm closer to forty now than I was Friday at 1:55am. I was that close to being an April Fool's baby.

I've heard that the new year used to turn over on April 1st. Then one day, centuries ago, the new year date was moved to January 1st, in the dead of winter. Anyone who held onto the old April date was considered a fool, hence, April Fool's day. I gained this was hearsay at Hometown Buffet over mashed potatoes and corn.

Sounds like a good explanation to me, believable too, as it involves creating a group to make fun of. Oh Lord, may we evolve!

No poetry fairies tickling my peripheral vision, no deep thoughts to untangle. We've recently returned from a two week trip to Texas. I'm still on a vacation high. Kindred spirits can be reached and communicated with through prayer and facebook, but I prefer real arms for warm embraces.

We made friends with four dogs on our travels. Now we're tempted to adopt a canine companion of our own. No sooner do I allow serious contemplation of such an acquisition than visions of large, expensive bags of dog food play before my inner eye, then clear plastic baggies full of warm presents. I'm not sold on the idea... yet.

That was close! For a second, I thought I'd lost all these ramblings. Phew, still there and ready to go out into the big www.

I'm done mentally meandering in print, for a while anyway.

i have ached for calm
drowsy hours
like this

boys earn gentle hushes
i could sleep
lola adjusts her small furry body

boredom, not mine
curls its whiny fingers
into silence

I have no remedy
for my son
a breath of patience, enough

child tiptoes beyond our creaky back door
an urgent search rewarded
treasure found

he sits cross legged and silent
skillfully maneuvering shadows
to tinny adventure melodies

serenity restored... ish

O God! i am a child
frail, circled by fear
sensing magic
bold by design
pressing forward
as I must, for love
please God, guide me

gently she carves a path to hope
inhales deep
eyelids stretched over hazel moons
her arms reach
through endless blue

I was gonna feel sorry for myself, sorry as in pining for wants I must accept uncertainty about while I wait hopefully for the desired scenario to transpire. I decided to make deviled eggs instead. Water's boiling now.

I was gonna slump on the couch and pout, then I rotated laundry. I found myself skipping down the hallway, wicker basket on my hip, lively as new possibilities/puzzle pieces formed in my mind.

I was gonna stick out my bottom lip, stare at blue curtains and wish for God to hurry up and show us answers to recent questions I obsess over, but just for tonight, I ain't.

I added green olives to last night's left over salad. I marvel at their strangely wonderful flavor and little pimento ribbons hiding inside.

I brewed a fresh cup of hot decaf, poured in organic half & half, an odd combination with olives, but warm on a cold March night.

I hear the swish-swish-whir of technology cleaning my boys' clothes. I sip warm richness, organic, fair trade, shade grown, everything hip and humane. I await the first bite of a novice attempt at a country potluck favorite, those egg delights oddly named after a terrible figure with a pitch fork.

Tonight, what remains before I head off to bed, I'm gonna be alright... and well nourished.

I ache enough holding love, hugs from small arms, cherished hopes like late winter buds; a promise of spring. Still, I sing here.

Pregnant with tears, matters I nestle in silent tenderness, a sacred sip of reality. My boys grow beautiful. I hold my breath, sigh as time slips.

Determined to live toward sanity, I offer laughter, listen to silence between words, make safe a path for fragile friends. Aren't we all? Turning my heart inside out, I pray.

Her older son flashes a crinkle-nose grin.

"Mooom, what?!" her younger son giggles, squirming.

"I'm grateful I get to be your mother," she offers, smiling.

Content, they turn back to an unconventional chess game. Little brother plays to act out scenes from Knight's of the South Bronx. Older brother aims to win. He will, they all know this from the start. No one cares. Least of all little brother. He enjoys his adored sibling's attention.

Laptop across her knees, she wonders, "Are there any words left?"

Winter, a strange blessing, calls, "Slow down."

She pulls a blanket around her shoulders and begins to write.

hello blank page
can you offer
miracles of clarity and depth
a classic ballet of syllables
sans effort (from me)
no need to pine
for a well-spun phrase

beginnings surround
ideas without form, first lines
silence beyond
an impatient gardener am i
checking roots
upending tender shoots
wishing not to wait
let an idea develop
as a good writer ought

inspired poems have come
and gone
bestowing charity
first stanzas nearly written
their relatives are sure to visit
some glorious future hour
demanding i take up
pen and parchment
dictate, translate
paint their reality
breathe life, texture
onto their bones

but not today