WAKING SLOW

I wanted to waken slow 

and write something holy and profound 

like finding a buried treasure trove 

on those gleyed trails deep in the forest. 

I wanted to be paid in birdsong and stellar light, 

reflecting off mirrored montane lakes 

deep in the mountains where carnivores

hunt on glaciers older than civilization. 

I wanted to waken with a cup of coffee in hand 

ready to render those fleeting moments 

into words, polished and sharpened 

with nuances of carborundum 

where the opinions of poets 

aren’t brushed off linen tablecloths 

by the baseless butler brooms of apathy. 

I wanted to mend the rents and tears in the fabric

of those missed moments in the past 

with a polished thread, where the darning needle

becomes a silvered road to stitch 

all those lost moments into a quilt,

those lost moments that have slipped 

irrevocably into a skein of untended fields. 

Those golden what if moments 

where only in hindsight, do you realize, that yes,

there were always other choices to be made,

but the bouncer at the trapdoor of the heart said no. 

What did he know of love?

I wish I had married the men I loved 

at least once, maybe even twice. 

I wanted to look back and say that I lived 

every moment fleshed in the round, 

that the prisoners were of my own choosing. 

I wanted to swing on the long arms of that clock,

stop time in the middle of the town square, 

dangle my legs into the air like a heron or a stork, 

say, that clock in Prague that charts constellations,

but my gut said no, and stupidly I listened. 

I wish I had traveled more. Just like that time 

I turned down a yes to the Great Barrier Reef, 

or to the Outer Hebrides dressed in indigo twilight.

I always thought there would be more time, 

but now as I stand at the lintel of that waiting room 

where age, and the erosion of memory is palpable.

I want to contemplate the sand left in the hourglass

as an end to a life well lived, as best as I was able,

considering the crossroads of familial inheritance

I was given—with no roadmap, or Michelin guide. 

InterestI squandered my days curating the detritus of the past.

All those portmanteaus of wrinkled what ifs

lost luggage circling all the carousels of the world

waiting for someone to take them home.

I wanted to inhabit a place of memory where love 

was the only viable stamp in my passport.

I wanted my heart to say yes yes yes.

7/13 Write On! with Terri Glass

Short v. 

WAKING SLOW

I wanted to wake slow and write 

on those gleyed trails deep in the forest. 

I wanted to be paid in birdsong and stellar light, 

reflecting off mirrored montane lakes 

deep in the mountains where carnivores

hunted on glaciers older than civilization. 

I wanted to waken with a cup of coffee in hand 

ready to render those fleeting shapes into words, 

polished with nuances of carborundum. 

I wanted to mend the rents and tears in the fabric

of missed moments of the past with a polished thread, 

where the darning needle was a silver road 

stitched into a quilt. Those golden moments 

where in hindsight, there were other choices.

I wanted to look back and say that I lived 

every moment fleshed in the round, 

that the choices were of my own choosing. 

I wanted to swing on the long arms of that clock 

stop time in the middle of the town square, 

dangle my legs into the air like a heron or a stork, 

say, that clock in Prague that charts constellations,

but my gut said no, and stupidly I listened. 

Now as I stand at the lintel of a waiting room 

where age, and the erosion of memory is palpable.

I want to contemplate the sand left in the hourglass

as an end to a life well lived, as best as I am able,

considering the crossroads of familial inheritance

I was given, with no roadmap, or Michelin guide. 

All those portmanteaus of wrinkled what ifs,

lost luggage circling all the carousels of the world

waiting for someone to take them home.

I want to inhabit a place of memory where love 

is the only viable stamp in my passport.

I wanted my heart to say yes yes yes.

WAKING SLOW

I want to wake slow 

and write something holy and profound 

like finding a buried treasure trove 

on those gleyed trails deep in the forest. 

I want to be paid in birdsong and stellar light, 

reflecting off mirrored montane lakes 

deep in the mountains were carnivores

hunt on glaciers older than civilization. 

I want to waken with a cup of coffee in hand 

ready to render those fleeting moments 

into words, polished and sharpened 

with nuances of carborundum 

where the opinions of poets 

aren’t brushed off linen tablecloths 

by the baseless butler brooms of apathy. 

I want to mend the rents and tears in the fabric

of those missed moments in the past 

with a polished thread, where the darning needle

becomes a silvered road to stitch 

all those lost moments into a quilt,

those lost moments that have slipped 

irrevocably into a skein of untended fields. 

Those golden what if moments 

where only in hindsight, do you realize, that yes,

there were always other choices to be made,

but the bouncer at the trapdoor of the heart said no. 

What did he know of love?

I wish I had married the men I loved 

at least once, maybe even twice. 

I want to look back and say that I lived 

every moment fleshed in the round, 

that the prisoners were of my own choosing. 

I want to swing on the long arms of that clock 

stop time in the middle of the town square, 

dangle my legs into the air like a heron or a stork, 

say, that clock in Prague that charts constellations,

but my gut said no, and stupidly I listened. 

I wish I had traveled more. Just like that time 

I turned down a yes to the Great Barrier Reef, 

or to the Outer Hebrides dressed in indigo twilight.

I always thought there would be more time, 

but now as I stand at the lintel of that waiting room 

where age, and the erosion of memory is palpable.

I want to contemplate the sand left in the hourglass

as an end to a life well lived, as best as I was able,

considering the crossroads of familial inheritance

I was given with no roadmap, or Michelin guide. 

So I squander my days curating the detritus of the past.

All those portmanteaus of wrinkled what ifs

lost luggage circling all the carousels of the world

waiting for someone to take them home.

I want to inhabit a place of memory where love 

is the only viable stamp in my passport.

I want my heart to say yes yes yes.

(interesting I changed the first one to the past tense, forgetting that I already had a version in the past tense. )