"Midlife Spells" for Days of Distraction

I found it hard to concentrate in these days after the election; I suspect I was not alone.  But I did get to our new faculty member's class; our accrediting agency requires that new faculty hires be observed in their first 30 days.  And while I was there, I got an idea for a poem, which I will start this morning.

It's not the first time that I've been observing a class and gotten an inspiration.  

For today, let me post a poem that got its birth in a different way.  On January 6, 2019, I made this sketch:

Careful readers may have already noted that January 6 is the Feast Day of the Epiphany.  Other readers will note the houses made of gingerbread and either think of Christmas cookies or Hansel and Gretel.

I went on a hunt to figure out which came first, the poem or the sketch.  I was surprised to see how many baked goods are in my poetry drafts at the end of 2018 and the beginning of 2019, all kinds of baked goods and crumbs of baked goods.  I still haven't found the original poem.

I almost always write my first drafts on purple legal pads.  I make revisions and then I make additional revisions as I type the poem into the computer.  I did type this poem into the computer on January 7, 2019, so it's probably older than I thought.  I almost never write a first draft and type the next day.

Still on my quest for the origins of the poem, I went to blog posts and found this one.  Now I have the glimmering of a memory.  I think I wrote the poem on scrap paper at church.

And now the poem has found a home in the literary journal Adanna.  I'm always happy when that journal accepts my work.

It seems a good poem for this day when so much remains uncertain.  And lately, every day feels like a day when so much remains uncertain.

Midlife Spells 



Some see the new star as they study 
the skies each night. Some find 
a trail of crumbs made from inedible 
heels and crusts, or larger meanings in the detritus 
of daily consumption. Angel choirs 
will sing to a few, but most of us 
will hear no message. 

Study the texts, the ancient 
ones and those composed 
by your compatriots. 
Pray the words in your ancestors’ 
book, a litany in words both strange 
and familiar. Write the codes 
on the soles of your most rugged shoes. 

Collect your treasures, the buttons 
from your grandmother’s blouse, her ring 
that fits on your slimmest finger. 
Keep the best recipes and the best photos. 
Cast away the clothes that never fit. 
You can have one shelf of books. 

Winnow your possessions down 
to your favorites and your constants. 
Avoid the houses made of gingerbread 
and all the traps the world will set. 
Make your way through the forest 
of enchantments with the protections 
only you can carry.