When it is too much, and too little, and everything in between.
So, there is a project I was asked to do before Thanksgiving, and it has stretched out through what was inarguably a very long, dismal and stressful winter, which could have been worse, and we were so glad that it wasn't.
And I have not done the project. There have been several small attempts, one large attempt - and a lot of thinking about it and being tangentially frustrated about not doing much on it at all, and not feeling like I wanted to, either.
So, when is too much. I tend to be a tenacious person about some things, and not at all - at all - about others. I did try to say I wanted to pass the project on to some other person before - but the project's owner said they still wanted me to do it. So I kept it, and Mark says it is just too much worry and frustration. Perhaps, it is, for there will be no return benefit except saying that I actually got it done - it is not for money or for fame, but just what to someone else might be a few turns of the wrist and there - you're done.
It would be so much simpler if it was like the first project I did for them (perhaps)... that was 'I'd like something like this - it doesn't exist - can you make it?' This is : Here is the item, go make something exactly like it, the same size, the same look, I know you'll do a good job. I find, that specifically, is something I'm not good at. I am not one to replicate something, my perfectionism says I'll never do it.
So I procrastinate. I attempt and fail. I get frustrated and then it colors all of my other projects with the feelings. And of course, I know if I did succeed it would do the same - color the rest with accomplishment... if I do not, and give up, it will remain in the back of my mind. It is a skeleton I can do not enough good with, and even as a success it would be a three penny postage stamp. What does that even mean? I'm not sure. I've been reading a lot lately, but in tiny pieces here and there and everywhere, and it is like a thousand birds in my air, lyrics, thoughts half-flown, and coming down in the field around me hoping to make some sense as I walk through picking up sheaves.
See what I mean?
Oh look, a rock I found, on a walk in the sun yesterday. It looks like the ocean.
And poems too hot and fresh to have been trimmed yet, just because.
Unspilled
the dark green ink
it beckons
with a swirl in the
bowl
but only in my
mind’s eye
because the darkness
is beset upon the
morning still
and the sunrise,
when it comes
will be full of
bustling
and the dark green
ink
will have to wait
again
in it’s bottle,
unspilled
like my thoughts,
unspilled
Thermal
I’m not the only
one who used to
lie out in the snow
as a child
after pulling some
sled up the hill
and coming back down
leaning back and
throwing out my arms
there in the cold
and the snow
staring up at the
big wide sky, feeling alone
and wondering how
long it would take
to freeze to death
I know I’m not the
only one who did this
how many do this
more than once or twice...
And I think I do it
in my life with other things
we lie for a time
out in the cold
against all natural
instincts, it would seem
until that thing
within us clicks over, urging
that we get up, and
seek our homes
whether they be of
body, mind, or soul
that place our
feathered things retreat to
to sit by the fire
and revive
and then – we
appreciate the warmth all the more
Tides
You’re such a good
girl, she said
you never want
anything
but oh, how I wanted
things
sometimes so hard
that they tasted like the blood
from biting my
tongue
but they were not
things I could ask for
few of them could
ever fit in my hand
and always, always,
they would be taken away
somehow or another,
I learned early
that nothing is
forever
everything is always
changing
and those things I
truly wanted seemed
just beyond my grasp
– intangible
until I learned,
through much effort
to hold them in my
eyes, and my heart
to weave them into
those inner webs
and labyrinths that
defy space and time
..and then, the
tides rose and carried me away
and I was the boat,
and the waters, and the moon
Echoes
There are always
echoes in here
words to string
together, this way or that
all the things said,
and unsaid
from this morning,
from three years ago,
there is little
rhyme or reason
I try to connect the
dots,
draw stars and
equations around them
not enough paper,
not enough ink
not enough thread,
to sew it together
I turn on music, to
try to drown it out
hum along, sing
familiar words
but other words,
other times, other places
continue to vibrate
in the in-between
places of Memory
where Time is not
the rule
one box always
opening twenty more
a million scattered
keyholes
and so few keys
I try to pick them
up like tiny beads
that get stuck under
my fingernails
I try to line them
up like thin steel pins
to stick them all in
place, but into what?
They continue to
tumble loose, and rattle
against this box
that is my brain
Heart Take Wing
There is only so
much
you can choose to
say
the rest is up to
the heart
may it take wing
and sing to you
Downpours
And when all your
years
you believed that
the overload
of your senses meant
that you could not
handle it
that you must run
from it
put on your flat
mask
pretend it was not
there
like trying to
ignore the rain
you can do it –
stand there drenched
and be miserable for
all to see
run for shelter each
time it starts
or you can dance in
the downpour
look for the
rainbows – prismatic glories
and feel your limbs
swimming
watch the drops fall
from your fingers
and trace the holes
in space as it
bounces off of
everyone’s umbrellas
built-in for them –
but not for you
perhaps, you are a
fish out of water
that swims in the
air
and without such
rainstorms
where you would be?
I am amazed, also, and grateful - my book has sold nearly two dozen copies in something like a week. Thank you. I hope you are enjoying it. Unspoken Things, Made Words poetry book by Marie Lamb
