I've Had Enough of This Day

I've had enough of this day.
wrap it up, send it back;
Let's see if tomorrow
brings something more interesting.

Math and Poetry

In fifth grade,
I was so perplexed by New Math
I would take a piece of chalk
and write imaginary mathematical formulas
on the playground blacktop;
large numbers that were seemingly multiplied
by other large numbers, of
reduced by long division.
Plus, minus, addition and subtraction,
I made it all up in foot-tall figures.
My peers avoided me.
My teacher called my parents.
My parents smiled at me, and
spent more time with me on my math homework.
I never really did understand New Math.
It wasn't until the next year
that i was asked to write a poem in class,
and I realized I needed more chalk.

A Quiet Saturday

Fill nine yard bags with leaves.

Get halfway through the taxes.

Run to the store.

Run back.

Make dinner.

Eat dinner.

Clean dishes.

Put dishes away.

Look out kitchen window,

from which I can see

in the late light

the crocus, burning blue

and in full display.

Quik Prep List 4 Zombie 'Pockalips

Some sorta canned food and Pop Tarts. Check
Nicotine gum. Check.
Deodorant and sunscreen. Check.
Aluminum baseball bat and hand sanitizer. Check.
Clean socks. Camera. Toilet paper. Check.
Comic books and a 12-pack of Red Bull. Check.
Best baseball hat (Tigers) and the iPad (can't leave it behind). Check.
Pick up Mom; leave her geranium plant behind. Check
Pack up the Camino and slap in the Iggy tape --
"Lust for Life" on repeat.
Keep driving.
Check.

The Writer's Bump

The scar on my upper arm? An early chapter, at least.
My gut is a reoccurring theme throughout.
Even my hairline can be worked into the story,
a progression, a personal timeline.
The way my third toe on the left foot
curves slightly to the right; 
the mole behind my right ear.
Then there's what is not visible.
The fractured rib, long heal'd;
whatever state my arteries are in.
And the callus on my right middle finger?
It is thousands of pens and pencils;
it is my vocational mark, my avocation's residue,
the title of my autobiography.

Do Not Disturb

Tired of answering my door in the run-up to the last election, I posted this sign/poem on my door. It worked, but I never got a Wobbly to knock...

The Pace of Spring

This year, Spring comes at the pace

it should around here: slow but gradually deliberate.

Not like last year, where we saw Winter

shut down completely and Spring skipped;

Summer started in March, for a month,

then went back to early Spring in April,

with frost that killed the fruit buds,

then back to Summer in May.
Climate change, we're told.

But this year, as spring comes on
as we remember, as I remember,

I wonder how many more

will come like this,

and how many more will come.