Walking The Line

Another poem from 2011. Life is so interesting; my thoughts regarding this particular topic are quite different now. Would love to hear from readers who have enjoyed my work. Many of you are mighty talented yourselves!

Diana Ray

Walking The Line

I fought it off
as long as I could.

I picked up my kid,
came home
and pulled weeds,
met with the gardener,
and cooked dinner.
My mind went
back and forth
like a ping-pong ball
in slow motion.

I desperately wanted to,
like a runner
wants a long drink
after a 10-mile run
in 80 degree heat,
completely necessary
and ultimately satisfying.

But the tug of reason
had a loud voice too.

“If you do it,
you will be a slug.
You will listen to music
while you wash the dishes,
then watch t.v
til you are so heavy-lidded
and lethargic,
you can barely make it
up to bed.

You’ll wake up
in the night
having to pee sooo bad,
your mouth
as dry and cottony
as that humming bird nest
found in the tree
the other day.
But you won’t get up,
as the slush
in your head
anchors you to bed,
it’s heaviness outweighing
even the worst needs
to pee and drink.”

But it’s been
a long week
and I’ve worked
really hard.
At my full time job
I go to every day,
and as a parent
of two small boys
who are close in age.
One of them so sweet,
but going through
a screaming phase,
the other quite difficult
and sometimes unpredictable,
leaving me
never quite sure
how life will be.

So why can’t I relax
and just do what I want?

Is it because
I never find the time
to write or submit my work,
something I talk about often,
but have yet to do,
the knowledge that
if I give in,
nothing creative
will ever get done?

Or does it remind me
too much
of life 12 years ago,
when I gave in every day
and was truly miserable.
More because I couldn’t deal
with a painful childhood
than anything else.
I was a basket case then.

But now is different
and I’ve accomplished a lot.
I’ve gone to therapy
and learned to cry,
I’ve had it out with my folks
and still remained friends,
I’ve more than survived
a 15-year relationship
that is still going strong,
and I’ve discovered
that I love to write.

So I deserve this night
of music and boobing,
of walking out
into my beautiful garden,
and feeling so gently
that soft and tiny
humming bird nest
I found the other day,
being extra careful
not to disturb it,
as the slightest wrong move
would make it all go away.

So I retire the ping-pong ball
and put the kids to bed,
get the music playing
as loud as it will go,
knowing I have
about 30-minutes to clean,
before my favorite show is on,
and step through
the laundry room door
into the chilly night air,
the side of the house
so incredibly lush
with fresh flowers and plants
I put in last week,
its fragrance of Earth
reminding me
of how much
I love to garden,
and turn my body
so the slight breeze
will not put out my flame,
as I take a big toke.

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