It's Pledge Week on Channel 12, WHYY.
I've watched Wayne Dyer, PhD, who I never liked much but acquired a taste for. He's 72 and has 8 children. He's battling chronic leukemia. His new gig is called Wishes Fulfilled. His adoring audience laffed and applauded as he set forth his newest theory of self-improvement.
Instead of wishing passively for something, say, instead: I am.
For me that would mean:
I am a good psychotherapist (my new Goals Group would agree) who is able to help the members attain their goals
I am a published novelist, my novel is being read by two publishers now - I toss off the words "Yes" into the night, hoping for a good email to end up in my Inbox
I am incredibly prosperous for an unmarried woman living by herself
I am altogether skeptical about these beliefs. In fact, I consider them unadulterated bullshit.
But don't let me influence you in the least.
I just called up WHYY and donated $60 so I could get a CD by Bonamassa. I gave them my credit card, which I want YOU to feel free to use anytime.
Just be sure you use it wisely, as I do.
1024 3982 0024
Expiration 09/14, Security code 114
Gradually I'm putting all my old poems up here. Lemme go to the pile and select one.
NOT TOO FAST DOWN BYBERRY ROAD
I am in the lead here on Byberry Road
steering my car over the first settling of winter snow
while cars swifter and finer than mine
follow in the tracks I have laid down.
I have cast aside my doubts and fears
of sliding wildly, of never returning home
and look neither to the right nor left
for nothing will distract me
from my place on Byberry Road.
How has it fallen to me to lead
when others with far more
valor and desire trail behind.
My car is small and unremarkable
its windshield streaked, its tires worn,
lacking all signs of prowess.
I turn down Masons Mill Road.
The snow is thicker here, slippery.
A bridge carries my wet car over the
creek where bicycles
in warmer days parked
so their riders could fish and wade
and splash the cool waters
over their bare hot arms.
Now the creek's frozen.
I see it gleam from my darkening window.
I wonder how fast I must spin
to bend and break the metal railing
and soar to the ice and rock below.
Trees and broad whitelands press between me and home
I pass the remains of an old mill fallen long ago
and places further back where the deer walk in silence
And I, like the deer, nose ahead
clasping the wheel with tight hands
aiming for what's around the next bend.