228. The Decision Collection

I keep a collection of options

in my pockets, like stones

and pebbles and little round rocks

perfect for skipping across the water.

With each decision, I drop one,

forgotten in the dirt or the sea,

but without an answer, 

they stay,

heavy and cumbersome,

weighing me down

and roughing up the lining

until something has to break

or I dump them in a pile

in the dusty corner,

hoping to forget they exist.

Some evenings,

all I can do is mend those pockets

and hope they'll be a little stronger,

strong enough to bear tomorrow's

collection of decisions

I cannot yet throw away.

170. Half-Baked Poetry

Some days, the little things stand out
in stark relief to the barren landscape,
the goanna in the grass, the new pool
just constructed on the back lawn,
the jazz singer who changes the words
of the song so he's singing just to me.

Some days, my fingers feel like they can't
move fast enough for my thoughts
and the browser won't open quick enough
and the images run over each other into a web
I must untangle and explore before I show it.

Other days, the blinking cursor taunts me
and the bed whispers my name like a promise
and I grow frustrated, because I know
I have ideas and images and beautiful things
swirling in my brain, half-baked, almost ready,
but they need a little more time to solidify
and sweeten before I can offer them up.

166. Lost for Words

For a moment, I think the poem
is locked in my aching fingers,
trapped behind my stiff wrists,
like a butterfly under a glass,
the beauty is there but I can't touch,
can't pull it close and put it into words.

My mind is an eddy of numbers,
equations,
processes,
swirling without an end
or even a beginning,

but I see the way the light plays
on an empty beer bottle,
how the birds in the ponds
look like the ants at my feet,
the way a smile grows slowly
and makes your face softer.

Like I tip the glass so carefully
the butterfly can climb on fingers
and I can touch something beautiful,
even if I can't put the day into words.

165. Collision Course

I remember the day

I first realized

everyone had a consciousness,

their own lives and activities

outside of their time with me.

I sat on the torn, brown seat

of the school bus,

my face pressed to the cool glass

of the window as a friend

rushed away from me,

toward her home,

and I thought she’ll still be doing

things, just like I will be

when I get to my home.

We’ll both eat dinner

and do our homework,

talk with our mothers,

play games in our yards.

The bus pulled away,

the little red stop sign folding

against the yellow metal side

as we moved closer my home.

I remember that day

as I lounge in my donga,

the door flung wide

to the sky turned muddy and dark,

encouraging the neighbors to stop,

say hello,

collide for an extra second.

150. Capturing the Outback

There were times in those first days, weeks,

when I would sit outside in the wobbly chair

or amongst the dust on the concrete sidewalk

and stare at the horizon, the spacious red dirt

and brush landscape spanning all four directions,

the broad expanse of the sky, ever cloudless

even on the mornings that felt like rain.

The air only held birds I’d never seen before,

zephyrs that felt strange against my skin,

and the sharp captivating reminder

that I’m actually in Australia; it lured me

outside for every moment I could spare.

I used to stare at the sky, tracing constellations

I couldn’t name, searching for shooting stars

or satellites in the edge of the Milky Way,

staring at the way the crescent moon hung

at a different angle from the one at home.

I photographed everything that could fit

into a frame and even more blurred attempts

to capture a feeling, a place that could never

be translated into words or tamed fit in a 3x5

photograph, or whatever that is in centimeters.

And I don’t want to have to say there were times.

Unfortunate Reminders

It's terribly wrong
that a site about burnout
makes me check email.

One Last Night

The tight press of the mismatched chairs

highlights the heat still pouring out of the oven

despite the chill of the night air outside

the windows thrown wide and the open door.

Pans and plates line the plastic tablecloth,

sections scarred and melted from old hot pots,

as seven people becomes eight and then nine.

We have neighbors and coworkers and new

arrivals with old friends visiting for one night

before they drive away in the morning light,

their jeep rattling out of sight one last time.

For now, we'll share undercooked brownies,

oversweet wine, ice cream that melts too fast,

and hot lasagna in oppressively hot room,

and we'll weave stories and share memories

and forget how painful it is to say good-bye

to another set of friends with maps in their eyes.

Fevered Dreams of Home

The fever makes me dream I'm on an airplane
with an impossibly smooth and speedy flight,
sitting in the window seat next to my father.
I'm home for November.

The plot gets waylaid a bit until I'm wandering
through the streets of my childhood neighborhood
meeting people that I've never actually met.
It's suddenly June.

In the basement, their spacious house hides
a high-tech post-apocolyptic bunker
complete with rows of washing machines.
I must be November.

I stop on my way out of the too long foyer
to play with the puppy that's appeared.
I used to dream about this house as a child.
I remember it's June.

Exploring Writer's Block

If I stare at the blinking black line
of the cursor in the text box
and I cannot find the exact words
or the appropriate perspective
and topic, it doesn't necessitate
an unremarkable day. Maybe
the day was filled with laughter,
games, vibrancy, productivity,
a stiff breeze on a cool day,
moments not captured on pages,
moments not quite unforgetable
but still worth a few remarks.

Another Farewell

Another late night barbecue--
sausages on the creaky gas grill,
empty cider and beer bottles
lining the center of the table.
The dance music and friends
remind us that this is a party,
but the lull as the crowd thins
brings out the nostalgia,
the embarrassing videos,
the memories of past farewells
and speculations about the next one.

Translocation

Sometimes, I stop in the middle of the path
and look up at the sky, a solid bright blue
or deep black with thousands of stars
and realize the proportions are all wrong:
there's too much sky and not enough land
to keep me cradled in close to the earth.
Instead, I'm noticeably small, exposed,
afraid.

Notes from a Heavy Sleeper

When he mentions the fire alarm
that woke everyone during the night,
I stare off in the distance, vacant,
as I try to grasp hold of a feeling
or a sound to tie me to the moment.

A memory flashes across my mind
but it slips through my fingers
like the coarse ribbon of a helium
balloon drifting off into the night.

The Thief in My Mind

There's a thief hiding in my mind,
sneaking around the very edges,
darting into the hippocampus,
and teasing through my memories.

His feet remain bare for stealth;
his catsuit is wrinkled with wear
and must be brain matter gray.

He's not a great thief, though,
because he takes the obvious:
what I had for dinner on Monday
and what happened last night
between turning off the lamp
and jarring awake to the alarm.

Maybe he's still in training,
working to become more stealthy.
Maybe he's grown too cocky
to try to cover his tracks.

Or maybe he is a decent thief.
I don't have an insurance plan
or an itemized list of the precious
things I store in my mind,
so a few must have been lifted,
only to be returned to me
in the quiet times when I stumble
across the thief and his cache.