by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
What is this that
wakes me from sleep
when little ones lie
peacefully across the hall?
An idea, singular,
a snippet, a thread,
and as I rise, shaking off the covers,
it is gone like the years.
Here they come to
knock and pile and kick and twist
and the losing, the tearing away,
settles into a brow
So that even when food is given,
smiles are shared, love lifts
the top of a wooden table,
it is there, a great hole of nothing
Nagging, stealing, splashing light with gray,
turning a head from what is before
and around and all in between
so the happy day smudges at the edges.
It is work and pain
and pleasure and despair,
love and hate,
a relentless torture, this art.
And yet
it is life for
the ones it calls
who dare to dance.
This is an excerpt from Textbook of an Ordinary Life: poems. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a few volumes for free.
(Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
I miss her laugh the most,
the way it would shake itself
out into nothingness,
like all the air had gone
and she could find no more,
but it was a happy place to be.
Sometimes she would get so tickled
my uncle had to slam his hand
against her back to get her
breathing again, but that
made her laugh all the more.
I miss those late nights
I’d spend reading in my room,
during the few summers
I lived with her.
I would make my way
into the bathroom for my
nightly routine of washing a face
and brushing my teeth,
and the dining room light
would still be blazing,
and there she’d sit at the table
in purple slippers with a
crossword puzzle open
in front of her. She’d be
chewing on the end of a pencil,
oblivious to the stacks of papers
shoved in corners. She’d have a
bag of potato chips or Riesen caramels
open and ready at her elbow.
I miss her purple lipstick
that always left traces on her teeth
and the way I would watch her
leave for work at the school
down the road while I
got ready for my own job across town.
She’d always remind me
to lock the door on my way out
and be sure to unplug
the curling iron.
I didn’t use a curling iron,
but I never told her that.
I miss seeing her slumped
on the couch in the middle
of the ten o’clock news, which she
insisted on watching every night,
and I miss the feel of her hand
on mine whenever she was near me.
I miss her curly black-white hair,
and I miss those eyes that never
seemed to miss a thing and the
handwriting in all caps and the
old Agatha Christie volumes
that sat on her shelves,
battered from excessive re-reading.
I miss the way she might have
looked at my sons and the
laughter that might have
shaken itself out into silence
at every humor piece
I carefully crafted with
her in mind.
She might not have lived
a remarkably extraordinary life,
just one that was
remarkably ordinary.
But in my memory,
she is a giant.
This is an excerpt from Textbook of an Ordinary Life: poems. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a few volumes for free.
(Photo by rawpixel on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
When you puff their petals,
they lift off into the sky,
tiny pinwheels twirling
on hopes and wishes and dreams.
It’s uncertain where they’ll land—
but it’s certain they’ll land.
And when they do,
they’ll grow another weed
that will release
another handful of
hopes and wishes and dreams
into the sky—
Which begs
the question:
weed or
flower?
(Photo by Dawid Zawila)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
5:30:31
We link hands and pray—
this is the beginning of
every great dinner.
5:30:35
The dinnertime
discussions are my favorite things:
necessary, thrilling.
5:30:58
We get to know who
our children are, see glimpses
of who they’ll become.
5:30:59
All while they suck dry
the soup they claimed they didn’t
like; now it’s tasty.
These are excerpts from The Book of Uncommon Hours, a book of haiku poetry. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a few volumes for free.
(Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
Walls, Bouncing off the
They are wired from
a birthday party. Will we
ever get to bed?
Sugar High
Laugh, laugh, cry, cry, laugh,
cry, the emotional turns
of a sugar high.
Birthday Party
Madness all around,
kids coming in and out. It’s
a birthday party.
These are excerpts from Life: a definition of terms, a book of haiku poetry. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a couple of volumes for free.
(Photo by Lorene Farrugia on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
2:52:38
Listen to the song
I sing and you will hear the
secrets of my heart.
2:52:39
I wish a wish and
dream a dream and yet life is
so, so much better.
2:52:40
This is what poetry
has to tell me: that life
is worth the living.
2:52:41
Some days the whole world
feels like it’s upside down, but
tomorrow’s brand new.
2:52:42
It’s an endless sort
of hope that echoes in all
our deepest spaces.
These are excerpts from The Book of Uncommon Hours, a book of haiku poetry. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a few volumes for free.
(Photo by Stephen Walker on Unsplash)
