Being Present
Thursday morning before work,
and I am here, walking the dog,
while emails pelt my Inbox
like Oklahoma hail,
and those I didn't answer yesterday
or the day before,
or the week before that,
have by now begun to sing in discordant voices
in six languages,
the music of Wagner,
the worst music, according to Philip Levine,
ever invented,
and I am here, with the dog, while he pees
on the garbage container
in front of 2542,
and the phone calls I need to make
and the ones I've yet to return,
and the appointments I need to reschedule
are rising out of the earth
like zombies,
and I am here, with the dog, waiting
as he inspects the patch
of ice plant in front of 2506,
while the tasks waiting at home--
drainage in the basement,
leaf debris on the roof,
dry grass on the hill out back--
have started to drift in like dementors
on the fading mist,
and here I stand, with the dog,
watching him confirm
for the four thousand and twenty-third time
the probability of raccoons
inside the storm drain
in front of 2118,
just as a breeze from the bay
brushes the pines’ tips
and sunlight breaking the overcast
fires red bottle-brush blossoms
along a split-rail fence,
and ten minutes from home
while a squirrel chatters,
I realize once again how at this moment,
with the dog, I am exactly where I need to be.
Take a Moment
Take a moment, or if that’s too much
to ask, take this one—take the next
sixty seconds of this poem as a gift,
no strings, no expectations,
except maybe that you use them
to take one breath that isn't deadline
driven by something undone, or laced
with work and worry at the thought
of what is waiting for you at the job
tomorrow, one breath that isn't wracked
by the eight things you still have to do
in a day of no slack. And don't worry--
this moment will not turn spiritual and try
to tell you “everything in its own time,”
or “whenever you're ready.” Let’s face it.
We both know things could be better,
you could be better. But this moment
is about understanding what it means
to shoulder the weight of each day
and shift it from sore hip to sore hip,
only to get up tomorrow and do it again.
So take it, use this moment for one breath
you can just let it out slowly, and trust that
this poem knows it’s all you can spare,
gets why you'll start again soon enough.
George Lober is a former winner of the Ruth Cable Memorial Prize for Poetry. His poems have appeared in numerous journals and e-zines, including MiPoesias; Lily; The Porter Gulch Review; The Homestead Review; Quarry West; The Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets, 2004; The Sandhill Review; Caesura and the Central California Poetry Journal. He is the author of two books of poetry Shift of Light (Hummingbird Press, Santa Cruz, CA, 2002) and A Bridge to There (Hummingbird Press, Santa Cruz, CA, 2009). He currently lives in Monterey, California.
Thursday morning before work,
and I am here, walking the dog,
while emails pelt my Inbox
like Oklahoma hail,
and those I didn't answer yesterday
or the day before,
or the week before that,
have by now begun to sing in discordant voices
in six languages,
the music of Wagner,
the worst music, according to Philip Levine,
ever invented,
and I am here, with the dog, while he pees
on the garbage container
in front of 2542,
and the phone calls I need to make
and the ones I've yet to return,
and the appointments I need to reschedule
are rising out of the earth
like zombies,
and I am here, with the dog, waiting
as he inspects the patch
of ice plant in front of 2506,
while the tasks waiting at home--
drainage in the basement,
leaf debris on the roof,
dry grass on the hill out back--
have started to drift in like dementors
on the fading mist,
and here I stand, with the dog,
watching him confirm
for the four thousand and twenty-third time
the probability of raccoons
inside the storm drain
in front of 2118,
just as a breeze from the bay
brushes the pines’ tips
and sunlight breaking the overcast
fires red bottle-brush blossoms
along a split-rail fence,
and ten minutes from home
while a squirrel chatters,
I realize once again how at this moment,
with the dog, I am exactly where I need to be.
Take a Moment
Take a moment, or if that’s too much
to ask, take this one—take the next
sixty seconds of this poem as a gift,
no strings, no expectations,
except maybe that you use them
to take one breath that isn't deadline
driven by something undone, or laced
with work and worry at the thought
of what is waiting for you at the job
tomorrow, one breath that isn't wracked
by the eight things you still have to do
in a day of no slack. And don't worry--
this moment will not turn spiritual and try
to tell you “everything in its own time,”
or “whenever you're ready.” Let’s face it.
We both know things could be better,
you could be better. But this moment
is about understanding what it means
to shoulder the weight of each day
and shift it from sore hip to sore hip,
only to get up tomorrow and do it again.
So take it, use this moment for one breath
you can just let it out slowly, and trust that
this poem knows it’s all you can spare,
gets why you'll start again soon enough.
George Lober is a former winner of the Ruth Cable Memorial Prize for Poetry. His poems have appeared in numerous journals and e-zines, including MiPoesias; Lily; The Porter Gulch Review; The Homestead Review; Quarry West; The Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets, 2004; The Sandhill Review; Caesura and the Central California Poetry Journal. He is the author of two books of poetry Shift of Light (Hummingbird Press, Santa Cruz, CA, 2002) and A Bridge to There (Hummingbird Press, Santa Cruz, CA, 2009). He currently lives in Monterey, California.