Pockets of Lovely

poetry to tuck alongside your to-do list

The End of the Day

By Abigail Rudibaugh

What does it feel like to be the most
celebrated person in our home?
All three of us counting the minutes,
cheering when we see headlights,
squealing as you walk in the door.

To not do anything, say anything,
interrupt anything, is to not love.
But maybe for the first time today
we do not need the reminder.

You make it easy to put down our work
for the sheer delight of embracing you
with your suit jacket and Tupperware
and eight hours deprived of little arms
with painted nails squeezing you

sharing what we cannot contain,
like the pasta water now sizzling
onto the electric stove, the possibility
of what our family can do, now
back under our one-chimneyed roof.

Backyard Portal

by Abigail Rudibaugh

Just when toys lose appeal

weathered from constant heat

covered by leaves, forgotten

the backyard, a barren land,

becomes an empty canvas.

A new portal exists

after the first snow—

the secret entrance

found in layers

boots that squeak,

two pairs of socks,

a hat strapped over ears

barely walking creates limits

unleashing all new possibles

like snow angels and sleds

the agenda of the day forgotten

like the steam that leaves the kettle hot

magic allowed back inside

with marshmallows and hot chocolate.

The Last Days of Summer

by Abigail Rudibaugh

I find myself desperate
for the green and blue
temporary backdrop.

The older I get the longer
I want things to last—
like the smell of sunscreen
mixed with citronella
and the time it take
to untangle the hose.
Simple pleasures
measuring all that is glad.

Every thing feels more
temporary, the older I get
like winter, sure to leave
its mark—
sure to leave me
staring upward a bit
longer each summer.

For Everything There Is a Season

by Abigail Rudibaugh

Mountain pose took a full ascension to reach.
Both kids dressed, fed, doors locked,
seats buckled, caretaker swap,
left me tiptoeing into meditation.

But here I am showing up, unfolding my mat,
joining the class with arms reaching out
my palms turning up as I surrender
all the things I did not do right.

What a luxury to indulge in the responsibility
of finding where my body feels tense.

My toes sink deep into the black vinyl
as I plant my left leg. My little toe bubbles
under the new weight my right leg gives it,
rising strong and hips evening.

I watch my footprint fade back to the surface
like wet sand on a beach at low tide.
I am proud of my self, of my stance,
of my mind clearing up enough to hold this.

I close my eyes, hands to heart center,
body bent in warrior pose. Strong.

I lower my legs to forward fold,
up to mountain pose, arms outstretched,
palms surrendering yet again as I fold
with my left leg lifted. This time content
expecting the print I made to dissolve again.

In Case We Miss It

There’s poetry
in half-eaten breakfast bars
in princess band-aids
she wears like it carries
a light of its own.

There’s poetry
in pool shoes layered in mud
in plastic coins gathering
on the bottom of the straw purse
in the crumbs unswept
under the kitchen table.

There’s flesh, blood,
hearts pounding,
energy pulsing,
preferences reflecting persons
reflecting unveiled treasure
upon treasure.

With a second look
we see them
if we are lucky
before we clear our plates
after breakfast.

A Day of Yellow

Our house holds
a rainbow by lunch.
Blues in the sleepy
eyes trying to blink
open turn to purple
like grape jam spread
on everyone’s toast.

Green is the color
of distaste for the eggs
that keep the kids
from being excused.
Orange is sun warming
toys for another day of play.

But something happens
around 9am. Boredom,
wanting more snacks,
or wishing they could have
a show. The volume turns
up the walls like a kettle
of grocery lists and clothing
preference feuds staining
all we own a deep red.

We need a release so
we pack the bags and
head for the door.

Cool air and no rain welcomed
at the door and the kids
run up the yard opposite
the car. I don’t yell.
Something about the grass
hitting our feet and so much
air between us quiets
the churning boil, diffusing
all the red to a calm yellow.

Awake and Dreaming

My daughter creeps downstairs
without creaking a single board.
She knew it was way past bedtime.
Opening my door, I see her,
get out of my own bed to meet her,
and take her back upstairs.

But instead of her hand reaching
for mine, my outstretched hand
grabs her decorated paper.
“Mom, I made this for you!”
speaks out of a full smile shared
with both her lips and blue eyes.

The paper holds an ice cream cone
colored a bright rainbow flavor.
She must have turned the light on
(after I switched it off) and went
to work coloring at her table.

How could I be mad
with marker all over her hand
and an hour of missed sleep?
I’m holding her dreams
she still knows she can achieve
right on this colorful sheet.

After Dinner Writing

The end to the day is the child
sweetly dreaming by 8pm.
There is a diligence, and a frustration,
when it takes longer than expected.
Rewind to 4 in afternoon when
the baby’s sleepy eyes wake from a nap.
Only ninety more minutes to explore and
build until the day turns into routine:
Cut the asparagus, bring the chicken out
of oven, and set the table for three.
Pass potatoes and retell the day
until the “all done” hands raise.
Wipe faces, pour toys into the warm
bath, and help find the set of pjs.

The familiar rhythm carries you
toward lavender lotion, and hair combing,
and promises of bedtime books.
Pull out the step stool and brush
each tooth until it tickles.  Tuck you
and baby into the suede arm chair
in the corner and read Goodnight Moon
and goofy Dr. Seuss. Pray holding
tiny hands—curled inside yours.
When you switch the light, decide
how many verses of “Amazing Grace”
you need to sing.  Let white noise
conclude with the crib of blankets,
Bunny, and a sleeping child soon.

When I think about the writing process,
it is much the same—
Preparing for the close of day and
preparing what you want to say.
Rewind to the morning at 10:15
when you see a tiger play ball
behind the zoo’s glass. Her power is
radiant, but you also glimpse
her loneliness, and you ache over
misconceptions just now coming
to surface—how maybe too much
power can isolate—you hold tight
the idea until it is strapped
to a folded notecard you carry with you
just in case. Jot down a few words
and hope they ignite into something
far more complete, later.

Tonight produces words on paper
and a heartbeat in punctuation.
The day can take minutes or months
as you slow to taste the possible words,
looking for the right flavor in your retelling.
You let the water rush onto your page
as the foam letters move and take
different shapes.  You clothe in a set
that fits you best: comb, rinse, and then
let it sit.  Read other writers until
you feel calm enough to turn off the light,
letting lullabies lead you to the pillow
you can finally rest your poem.

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