The Buyer's Remorse of God and Other Poetry Ideas

I have been up since just before 2 a.m. (I went to bed at 8, so it's not as bad as it sounds).  While I wouldn't want to do this every morning, there are times when I like getting up that early.  I get a lot done.

I woke up thinking about the accreditation update, but I can't write that here.  So, I graded the two items that had just come due in my online class--it's an intense class, with students turning in 4-9 pieces that need grading each week.

I prepared a poetry submission for the Beloit Poetry Journal, only to find out that submissions aren't being accepted until June 1--which isn't very far away.  I wrote a bit on a short story.  And then, a poem came to me.

We are at the 4 year anniversary of buying our house; we are at the one year anniversary of finding out that our cottage resident would be moving to Utah.

I do not feel buyer's remorse, but every year, as insurance bills start arriving in the mail, I do wonder how long we can afford to live here.  This morning, I wondered if God ever has buyer's remorse.  I thought about our planet as a house in need of constant repair.  I wrote a poem.

I envision God as having irritation at being able to see the potential in a place, but not being able to quite pull off the transformations that should be possible.  I look at my temporary kitchen and think about ways that the permanent kitchen might be better.  We have the money set aside.  All I need is the time to get some estimates--and to move into the cottage for the reconstruction period.  And before that can happen, we'll need to get the space ready . . . and the floors fixed . . .  .  And then the largeness of the task overwhelms me.  I imagine God feeling the same way.

If I carry this metaphor onward, does that mean that humans are God's contractors?  I could make that work.  Some contractors know what they are doing.  Others will take the money and vanish.

My poem ends at the end of the day with God having a glass of wine on the front porch as the sun sets. 

I also experimented with a different poem.  I have spent much of my work week filling forms with information that's on other forms that can't talk to each other.  Yesterday, I said, "In my next career, I don't want to have to deal with Excel.  When I run away to my goat farm, I will keep a ledger the old fashioned way, on paper, written in pen."  I then spun out a fantasy of goats and soap and upscale markets and old trucks.

"When I run away to my goat farm" has become the same kind of shorthand that I once expressed as "When I run away to theology school."  That phrase about theology school made a good poem--I'm still not quite there with the goat farm.

Well, I will let it percolate a bit--now I must head off to school.  But first, spin class--Future Kristin would want me to go.