Feline Physicist

Einstein is trapped in my cat's body.
He is hard at work creating
physics labs wherever he goes.
He lives from one trial to the next,
leaving a wake of failed experiments behind.

Gravity is his area of expertise.
The feline physicist knows it will fall,
but resiliency is his real passion.
Will it break?
Will it bounce?

I'm not sure how much he prepares his lab
before collecting data.
Unfortunately, the feline physicist cannot write
but rather trusts his instincts and memory
to set the foundation for future learning.

Glass breaks
Plastic bounces, unless it too breaks.
Better try that one again.
Yes, plastic sometimes bounces then breaks. Fascinating.
Rubber nearly always bounces, and is therefore hardly worth a second look.

Wait, does glass break?
Oh right, yes. it does.
It also makes a fantastic noise,
which should be studied later,
after he gets a handle on gravity.

Human encroachment ruins all lab procedures and
brings all experiments to an abrupt pause,
to be concluded after all humans have given up for the day.

The feline physicist always persists,
testing and retesting the relationship between table, cup and floor.
He doesn't care that he is called "Bad Kitty",
for his mission is larger than pleasing people,
and he knows he is forgiven until his next experiment.

Ask and it shall be given

I race to touch
Every
Single
Thing
In God's store.

My eyes are bigger than my stomach,
My watch, my wallet, my brain.

Lord help me.
I am Your child.

Sit me down and explain to me
My options
Like I do for my six year olds.

Make me look at Your face
To be sure I listen.

Smile and let me make my choices
That send me
Careening down the straight and narrow path.

Your love catches me
Wherever I land.
Your grace rolls its eyes,
Prepared to repeat it again in whole
Tomorrow.

That Little Planner

The to do list
Rolls on, growing as you speak.
Brain dumps like landfills;
Clocks ticking, pencils ticking
Off those things to do as quickly as they appear.
The schedule defies calendars and planners,
Because little dictators have no plan.
They point me in a direction like a cannon and shout,
"Onward!"

Those twenty minute workouts would be best done in ten.
Sweat, work, soreness -- all welcome,
But time is the villain,
Making a disappearing act, just when the going gets good.
When sitting still, holding on, feeling time pass
Is the object of the game,
Then the real challenge is on.
No shiny objects or alarms.
Just silence.
Maybe noise.
Wait.

Cockamamie Ideas

With my bucket in one hand
And the children lagging behind,
I begin summer's trek today.
All the wonders and conquests
I have stowed upstairs all year
Have rushed my mind's door,
Like the mother of sick children,
Begging for immediate attention.

I am not able to salve those burning ideas
Not yet, anyway.
They say I must rest
Before the mountains of summer are scaled.
I fear the coals will be squelched
Or at least cooled to a tolerable temperature.
I don't want to answer that universal
August question with a shrug, nothing much, you know.

Triage must work overtime, then,
Sorting every idea into those ubiquitous mental bins:
Now, later, or never.
Plans to be set, broken, then reset
Will rarely resemble my tableau
I pictured when I first mentioned
That cockamamie idea.
One more thing to put in the bucket for another time.

Handmade Baby Present

Dear new Mama,

There will be some days when
Every green light is a direct gift from God,
And your handwriting is perfect.
Your baby will be happy and easy,
And you can conquer the world.
Your friends will say just the right things,
And you will have the perfect comeback,
Sweet or salty or both, just right.

There will be other days when
You don't want to hear anyone
And their thoughts on pacifiers
Or sun screen, or vitamin drops.
The struggle to travel around the clock twice,
May seem like three or four laps.
My kingdom for a pacifier,
My empire for a nap.

The tightrope is scary,
And high enough for everyone to see.
There is no time or place for practice.
If you look down, though, remember that safety net
Stretched taut and safe, held by all
Who love you just as much
During the rain as during the sun.

We're all cheering for you from below.

Dear June

Eliot made romantics bat their eyes when he nominated April as the cruelest month, but my vote for the most tortuous period goes to June.

June, when my children go to bed before dusk to wake for school on time.

June, when the neighborhood pool is open, and teenagers bring their notes to read at the nearest picnic table. Heads turning at each diving board wobble, each lifeguard whistle, distracted until their study guide for civics or French or world domination is finally complete.

June, when it's already 70 degrees by breakfast, but you have to wear the school uniform.

Teachers are still waking up early in the middle of June, scrambling to find a sitter so they can pack up the rest of their classroom, labeling every piece of "good" furniture 25 times, just in case. Report cards, check. Student folders, check. Finding the permission slip "that" mom swore she brought in, just before she swore all the way down the hallway, check. Thank God for social promotion.

School staff complete their check lists and relinquish their other keys for 65 days. For several mornings, they will awake in a panic, having slept past dawn, but the discomfort passes. So does the fear that they have forgotten something at school. Some teachers get a second or third job in the summer, others cram in continuing education. All of them have plans for doing better than before in the coming year.

Families gingerly ease into their summer rhythms of sleeping in, or summer camp, or grandma's house like they ease their toes into a cold pool before the sun has had a good chance to warm it up. That happens a lot in June, too.

By the time the family's summer is rolling it's July, and kids talk wistfully about classmates and anticipated adventures one grade up. Independence Day, family reunions, and sports devour the summer and spit us out mid August, sweaty, irritable, and ready for our next favorite season -- school shopping.

The blank page stares again,
Starving for ideas to fill it.
Perfect and clean and smooth.
Snow, waiting for the Angels and forts;
Grandma's tablecloth, just before the spaghetti dinner.

My pen tumbles from my hand,
Trying to begin it by ending it all.
Strays are better than nothing,
And the smeary squiggle in the margin
Lends a liquid courage that even a mother could love.

Between the lessons I teach

And the lessons I learn,

The gardens in the yard

And the tender saplings upstairs,

Look for the secret codes: SOS -- save our sanity.

Don't take too much time

To decode the message,

For then you will be sure to find 

The wormholes in my quaint collectibles.

The sanity I save is my own.

Just smile and wave as you pass by.