The Knowing

It is the chase,
the thrill,
the up and down hunt,
the relentless desire to capture
the uncapturable.
It is the running,
the throwing of oneself
into the air
without concern for the ground below.
It is the committing,
fully,
to the task at hand,
never stopping to question
the why
or when.
It is the unshakable belief
in oneself,
the knowing that someday
all will be reached.
It is the reason
every step taken
will not be in vain.

Taking Bunny Outback

For her birthday
she wants to go to The Outback
or Red Lobster.
To me
going there is like going to McDonald’s
except that you sit down to order
and you have to leave a tip.
I want us to go to a nice restaurant,
you know,
where the food is actually cooked by someone
who cares.
If we go to an Italian restaurant I’d like an Italian chef in the back
or at least someone that’s studied Italian cooking in Italy,
not some pimply faced teenager slopping canned tomato sauce
on linguine so he can buy that ’78 Camaro he’s always wanted.
But that’s me,
I’m the oddball of the family.
I’m the one who always wanted to see those “weird” art films
when my sister and parents wanted to see Smokey and the Bandit.
I’m the one who doesn’t eat meat,
meditates,
and makes my bed in the morning.
I’m the one who writes poetry,
and songs,
and believes that “Zen and the Art of Archery”
actually has practical applications for life.
I’m the one who believes in following my dreams,
and that people can change,
and that everyday is a new day.
Yeah, I’m the weirdo.
So, I guess I should just shut-up
and let them eat wherever they want.
Because if I suggest a place,
chances are no one will like it.

Time

It is a strange thing
to hold one’s position,
to decide that you cannot change
directions
in mid-stream,
to sit steadfast in your intention
regardless of the temptations
put before you.
For too long now,
I have given up
what is mine.
I have let myself be swept away
into the mire
of others.
I have watched the years come and go
with promises of tomorrow
and the threat of changed behavior.
But tomorrow is tomorrow is tomorrow.
Soon
there will only be
what could have been.
I tell myself that
when I choose the remote
over my guitar.
Or when I choose the phone
over my pen.
I tell myself that
when I walk out the door
in search of something
I really don’t need.
I tell myself that
when I run to my lover
instead of to myself.
My prayer is simple:
God, help me use the time I have been given
to do what I know is write.

Laughing With Ice


I am ready to begin
laughing with ice,
to watch the poet
seashell
himself
into the milk of the moon
again and again.
How many flowers
have fallen
constricted by the memory
of greed?
Brother against brother,
the challenge of glowing coals
surrounds us.
Now that I am blind,
armed
with violin and flute,
the crescendo of color
waves its flag in my face
like a poor musician
struggling to be heard
above the roar of the crowd.
It is as if I were
alone on the sand
collecting pebbles
so that others may speak.
Time after time
I have crowned
the queen,
remembering
the power of orange skies,
her thighs,
a bit of foam,
and the garden
where all my tulips
wait
to rise.

Dream Couple

Tomorrow
a couple from India
will come and buy my house.
I know it.
I was standing in the kitchen
talking about this couple
who are going to buy my house
when I realized I was having deja-vu.
A couple of years ago,
I had a dream about a couple from India who wanted
to buy my house.
And in the dream
I was telling my boyfriend about them.
And in the dream I was
in the kitchen
just like I am now.
Only now,
it isn’t a dream.

Certainty


Yes,
I knew it once
long ago
when I was a child
and still ate Oreo’s
while sitting on the kitchen counter.
I was certain
my father was right.
Certain
my birthday would come.
Certain
I could eat as much buttered white toast
as I wanted.
I was certain
I would never forget
how sweet the creamy white middle tasted.

Happy Valentine's Day

Today
rather than write a poem,
I thought it might be nice
to put up a song.
Go to
myspace.com/dianadarby
and listen to Valentine's Day.
xoxoxo

diana

p.s. I hope you get lots of chocolates.

2 Line Poem

I’m only stopping here for a little while.
Don’t bother me.

Death of A Clown

There is a clown
laughing
in the yard.
A big white dog
with a bone in his mouth
drinking down ice water from a yellow bucket.
I am in my room
drinking Kukicha tea,
trying to ward off the cold I woke up with.
This morning when the sun came in my windows
I saw it.
I felt the blue.
I wondered where I have been the last forty years,
curled up in some deep haze of hurt,
trying to control the uncontrollable.
Now, I am ready to start again,
to leave behind the past that was mine.
I am ready to find out who I am in this world,
ready to go to Portland, or New York,
or somewhere where I can be
me.
I do not know if I am the clown
in the yard
or the dog with the bone in its mouth.
I only know
to stay here
would mean death.

Nashville

I am tired of churches,
and the suffocating crosses.
Billboards imploring me to love
Christ
and repent my sins.
I am tired of butter on rice
and sugar in tea,
and the kind of people who live in this city.

White Page

I am writing between lines,
like I did in school,
filling in the white with words.
I haven’t written on lined paper
in years.
I gave it up a long time ago
in favor of the blank page.
Lines feel restrictive.
They keep you in bounds.
They keep you from crossing over.
When I was a kid
I never knew what the lines were
so when I crossed them
no one cared.
There were no punishments,
or repercussions.
No one saying, “Stop”.
No bedroom doors refusing to open
without a knock.
Everything was
a white page
for me to write upon.
Looking back
I can see the lines
crossing and counter-crossing
creating a black field
so intertwined
it is impossible
to see through.
A doodle
gone mad.

Superdumb

Yesterday,
I watched the Superbowl.
I don’t know why.
I found the entire event to be
somewhere between a bore
and an offensive hoopla.
It wasn’t just the laser light show
and the go-go dancers
worshiping Prince,
or the slamming of bodies
that bothered me.
It was the commercials.
They either celebrated big breasts,
burgers or beer.
I remember when Superbowl commercials
used to be some of the most creative things on t.v.
all year.
Not this year.
I can’t even remember one of them,
except that they all seemed either racially,
sexually, or monetarily offensive.
Maybe I’m completely out of step
with the rest of this world.
I don’t eat meat,
I rarely drink,
and I don’t have aspirations to drive a Lexus.
Maybe I don’t know what it means to be
an American.
But whatever the reason,
next year when the Superbowl comes on,
I’m not watching.

Asylum

I want to come home
somewhere
to a man with one ear
painting flowers and rivers
in the kitchen.
I rise,
hopeful,
but hope turns to despair
when the gulls come begging.
How does anyone live in this world?
I think of the asylum
and the overcoat in the corner
and I wish I could run there.
I think of the phones that I should like to unplug,
the ones that ring over and over
and the ones that never ring at all.
I think of the bottles and drawers
and stiff fingers
and the voices that never stop.
And I think of the asylum.

Pond

What I would like my life to be
is not a large boat
breaking the water,
thrashing the waves
with streams of bubbles and spit.
Or a crow
flying through clouds
shimmering into the last snow.
Or a marshland,
endlessly hungry,
crying for bugs and the comfort of stars.
No,
what I would like my life to be
is a pond,
nestled in the sweetness of woods,
reflecting the butterfly’s wings
with my eyes,
still,
allowing what comes
to light upon me
and leave
without struggle.

Sole Mio

I am full of pasta
and pizza and bread.
I am sluggish
as a sleeping pup.
The words are coming out of my brain
sideways
like blowing snow.
Drifting in and out,
the last sip of red wine
still on my lips,
my fingers red with sauce.
I forgot the day,
and my work,
and the after
of so many bites.
There was only the cold
and the linen tablecloths
calling me to lunch.
There was only the smell of garlic
and mozzarella.
There was no one warning me
like they do on a pack of cigarettes,
“Eat at your own risk.”
Now
I am still and silent as a fruit bowl,
round and full
and ready to explode.