When no one is looking

Pigeons descend on me and take
minutes away, seed by seed, before I reach
for more to share and give away.

I may be an amateur poet and not
the real thing -- Time is my excuse:
Everyone takes minutes and I gladly share.

A mess of minutes disappear in seconds
until I'm left with zero.  No time for myself.
So I steal away; steal them back:

Forty-five minutes before the sun and kiddos wake up;
20 minutes before I'm called into the kitchen;
Ten minutes in between loads of laundry.

It's not the best system, but it's what I have:
a condensed time frame to get my art out.
No time to listen to my soul;

No time to still myself and watch
for the words, not wait, but sit and watch
when no one is looking.

Answering Emerson's Questions

poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

--Plato

What is day?

twenty-four hours that pass by
in minutes if not present,
with no sense of purpose nor direction

What is a year?

reckoning time in the ordinary;
wake-up call for missed resolutions;
revolving around your centre

What is summer?

aestas -- long and lazy
marked by intermittent naps,
family field trips and rosé in sweating glasses (in aqua sanitas)

What is woman?

fierce, soft, warm, and not to be trifled with;
daughter smelling sweet and sweat and dirt and sun;
wife companion never underestimated
family stabilizer.

What is child?

innocent          can be taught to hate;
innumerable questions; interruptions and
perfect timing to scream while I'm on the phone.

What is sleep?

much needed          never enough;
the cure-all for any tantrum;
difficult to come by when angry, anxious, or drunk. 

What is truth?

In vino veritas
painful and biting          it comes from my children
witty and wise          it comes from my children
repeatedly found and continually searching for
virtue of wisdom