...
Right here, in my chest,
breathing shudders, rasps.
Sick again at Christmas.
Pneumonia with a painful shot,
please don't, please don't hold me down.
I'm left to breathe while the visiting continues.
Give the doctor a drink, 2 drinks; one for the road.
Fear of the gasping, hurting lungs
and gentle neglect here in the dark.
Don't cry, it plugs up the throat.
"Why now?", I hiccup.
I need my Christmas,
the presentation of pyramids of wrapped gifts.
Mine being a gift of a ceramic rooster,
expressing my yearning;
and a comb for the boys.
My faith in these perfect gifts
portends perfect longed-for joy.
I need to be there just in case.
Cold morning for such breathless breathing.
Cold morning for unwrapping
with fear of disappointment.
I surely love these distant relatives.
Distant in the same Christmas Cheery room.
Gosh it's cold with the fire roaring,
light glaring it's magnesium,
camera flash popping.
My hurting chest sends me to lie down.
Again I listen to noise outside my room.
Shouts of pleasure, generosity and fear.
They brought a tiny tree with lights.
Why does it shine
so coldly in the window
when I am so warm?
Better to gasp at midnight in quiet,
with soft Christmas lights glowing.
Maybe sleep will come.
What a strain this Christmas celebration has become.
I cough, I pant, whispering,
"I hurt. Do you know I'm in here?".
...
Monday, December 21, 2009
around here
...
how to let it happen is to let it roll.
dates, important dates lie in wondering waiting.
8 or so.
wondering when what where who.
So we wait.
a flowing holiday unwraps
as slowly as the most ordinary day,
sitting here to see what's there.
Oh, yes.
groceries.
dusting.
a tree.
only 1 box of memories look good.
just as good.
together.
watching a first season and laughing HA!
electronics have their place in family.
together all at once at the funk gig
where music lubricates the relationships
into a well run machine.
and there you are.
that's the holiday.
that's it.
with much tenderness against
the usual, itchy, over-planned lists and dates.
this is just the thing.
...
how to let it happen is to let it roll.
dates, important dates lie in wondering waiting.
8 or so.
wondering when what where who.
So we wait.
a flowing holiday unwraps
as slowly as the most ordinary day,
sitting here to see what's there.
Oh, yes.
groceries.
dusting.
a tree.
only 1 box of memories look good.
just as good.
together.
watching a first season and laughing HA!
electronics have their place in family.
together all at once at the funk gig
where music lubricates the relationships
into a well run machine.
and there you are.
that's the holiday.
that's it.
with much tenderness against
the usual, itchy, over-planned lists and dates.
this is just the thing.
...
Saturday, December 5, 2009
2 steps
...
Only two steps.
You wouldn't know it was only two, not a trek of a thousand.
Two footprints.
The mud reeks, the footprints slide into tracks, slipping down, no telltale sole of a shoe to see.
Those two steps will take themselves through eons.
Leaving drying splots until dirt-like sand, aggregate with smooshed compost, begins to break down atomically.
Perhaps not into atoms, maybe only into molecules that will stick, floating in the ionized space, just above the flooring.
...
...
Only two steps.
You wouldn't know it was only two, not a trek of a thousand.
Two footprints.
The mud reeks, the footprints slide into tracks, slipping down, no telltale sole of a shoe to see.
Those two steps will take themselves through eons.
Leaving drying splots until dirt-like sand, aggregate with smooshed compost, begins to break down atomically.
Perhaps not into atoms, maybe only into molecules that will stick, floating in the ionized space, just above the flooring.
...
...
Friday, November 20, 2009
Can You Get it?
...
I waited, a thin girl with braces, in an awkward communion dress, hands up asking for the wafer.
Confirmation comes at 12, eighth grade, when knees are knobby, teeth too big for the face and unlikely people end up at the party.
The confirmation memorization: prayers mostly, and a book about Jesus as a boy my age. He seemed so real; familiar, comfortable. Maybe he was more intelligent, coordinated and handsome than I, but his 12 year old grace and sensual kindness left me included, understood. He stood dusty, holding wood for his father. Here, hold this. Hold it until it's needed.
I would do it. I'd wait, head covered, in dust colored homemade cloth, smoothed by numerous days in hot sun, while red, fine sand sifted between my toes. Through the windy dust I'd hold the hammer, waiting for the strong arm reaching back. I'd wait helpfully as if needed.
That gray-blue book at confirmation lessons, just right to fit into two adolescent hands, included line ink illustrations, showing the boy I wanted to be. But this book was only a story. Made up to fill in the unknown growing up time of my Lord. After nativity we find him speaking in the temple like an elder, upsetting the balance. Skeptical adults could not fault him because of his wisdom.
I lost that boy. Party sounds drowned out the memorized prayer and friendship. The quiet elegance of church began to lose it's hold on me, the beauty, the carving and silver, dimmed. I sank into recognized hypocrisy on the drive home.
Turn around, girl! This is behind you now, beauty ahead. Your crippled back got stuck looking back. Turn around and see the dusty boy, an adult now like you. Still impossibly waiting and understanding. Giving you this life you almost missed. Turn your crooked back around, uncomfortable as it might be, face into the dusty storm and see hope.
Leave the family and cleave to your beloved.
...
I waited, a thin girl with braces, in an awkward communion dress, hands up asking for the wafer.
Confirmation comes at 12, eighth grade, when knees are knobby, teeth too big for the face and unlikely people end up at the party.
The confirmation memorization: prayers mostly, and a book about Jesus as a boy my age. He seemed so real; familiar, comfortable. Maybe he was more intelligent, coordinated and handsome than I, but his 12 year old grace and sensual kindness left me included, understood. He stood dusty, holding wood for his father. Here, hold this. Hold it until it's needed.
I would do it. I'd wait, head covered, in dust colored homemade cloth, smoothed by numerous days in hot sun, while red, fine sand sifted between my toes. Through the windy dust I'd hold the hammer, waiting for the strong arm reaching back. I'd wait helpfully as if needed.
That gray-blue book at confirmation lessons, just right to fit into two adolescent hands, included line ink illustrations, showing the boy I wanted to be. But this book was only a story. Made up to fill in the unknown growing up time of my Lord. After nativity we find him speaking in the temple like an elder, upsetting the balance. Skeptical adults could not fault him because of his wisdom.
I lost that boy. Party sounds drowned out the memorized prayer and friendship. The quiet elegance of church began to lose it's hold on me, the beauty, the carving and silver, dimmed. I sank into recognized hypocrisy on the drive home.
Turn around, girl! This is behind you now, beauty ahead. Your crippled back got stuck looking back. Turn around and see the dusty boy, an adult now like you. Still impossibly waiting and understanding. Giving you this life you almost missed. Turn your crooked back around, uncomfortable as it might be, face into the dusty storm and see hope.
Leave the family and cleave to your beloved.
...
Wet Cliche
...
They say it's cliche to compare rain with tears, but what a great cliche it is. The reasoning persists. Tears fall down the face, wetting cheeks, leaking of their own accord, pouring, even spurting out through squeezed eyes. Hard rain or soft or blowing sideways rendering overhanging awnings useless; straight across like a video camera askew.
Why can't we know rain and pain are conjoined; just know, not live; not living wet faced and hurting.
Seems to me that knowing is enough:
I'm grieving, thank you, that's just a fact, no need for resounding, out loud grief.
An act of feeling, an act of love lost, just acting.
Wear a black armband I think, or at least an imaginary band, squeezing my bicep softly, just to remind; a reminder is redundant for an aching heart, but just in case. I may mistake it for flu, thus a memo via a strip of black cloth could keep sanity alive.
Dark heart, why can you not get it? Game over.
I'm gone; an astronaut tugged free from the ship, air hoses waving behind.
...
They say it's cliche to compare rain with tears, but what a great cliche it is. The reasoning persists. Tears fall down the face, wetting cheeks, leaking of their own accord, pouring, even spurting out through squeezed eyes. Hard rain or soft or blowing sideways rendering overhanging awnings useless; straight across like a video camera askew.
Why can't we know rain and pain are conjoined; just know, not live; not living wet faced and hurting.
Seems to me that knowing is enough:
I'm grieving, thank you, that's just a fact, no need for resounding, out loud grief.
An act of feeling, an act of love lost, just acting.
Wear a black armband I think, or at least an imaginary band, squeezing my bicep softly, just to remind; a reminder is redundant for an aching heart, but just in case. I may mistake it for flu, thus a memo via a strip of black cloth could keep sanity alive.
Dark heart, why can you not get it? Game over.
I'm gone; an astronaut tugged free from the ship, air hoses waving behind.
...
Monday, October 19, 2009
Magazines, papers and books...Oh My!
...
Too much stuff to read around here.
It's my mind that's full.
Stuffed like an over filled closet.
I can't even finish what's new today.
T.V. just adds to.
I read historical stories of dark ages wars and life.
I read One Day at a Time.
I read entertainment reviews.
Political cartoons.
Bird suet recipes.
I see videos of sandy soldiers single file tracking hunched down, rifles in hand.
It's 110 degrees.
The enemy is hidden.
The local government is corrupt.
Apathy lies dusty at home.
No one can simply state reason's we're there or there either.
I read that over medicating causes terrible things.
I read that some who won't take meds are in terrible trouble.
My internet home page shouts about home invasions, hoaxes, air quality, budget deficits, poverty next door to riches.
I read that stress causes terrible things to happen to the body.
Cholesterol and worse.
Memos.
They tell of pay cuts and furlough days.
They remind me to show up proving no T.B.
I read that ancient medicine has the answers.
It's new again.
Did the ancients have stress?
They didn't have T.V.s or computers.
They weren't wired every minute of every day.
Of course they didn't have convenience stores either
and those relieve stress when plastic diapers are needed.
Or milk.
Or jerky.
Maybe it balances out.
Some cure for stress will fix it all.
Breath
Posture
Relaxation.
Maybe.
...
Too much stuff to read around here.
It's my mind that's full.
Stuffed like an over filled closet.
I can't even finish what's new today.
T.V. just adds to.
I read historical stories of dark ages wars and life.
I read One Day at a Time.
I read entertainment reviews.
Political cartoons.
Bird suet recipes.
I see videos of sandy soldiers single file tracking hunched down, rifles in hand.
It's 110 degrees.
The enemy is hidden.
The local government is corrupt.
Apathy lies dusty at home.
No one can simply state reason's we're there or there either.
I read that over medicating causes terrible things.
I read that some who won't take meds are in terrible trouble.
My internet home page shouts about home invasions, hoaxes, air quality, budget deficits, poverty next door to riches.
I read that stress causes terrible things to happen to the body.
Cholesterol and worse.
Memos.
They tell of pay cuts and furlough days.
They remind me to show up proving no T.B.
I read that ancient medicine has the answers.
It's new again.
Did the ancients have stress?
They didn't have T.V.s or computers.
They weren't wired every minute of every day.
Of course they didn't have convenience stores either
and those relieve stress when plastic diapers are needed.
Or milk.
Or jerky.
Maybe it balances out.
Some cure for stress will fix it all.
Breath
Posture
Relaxation.
Maybe.
...
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Hot will End.
...
The amber/bright light sits hovering above,
pushing Autumn away.
Autumn that wants to be here.
It showed up last week or so,
but Summer doesn't move out so easily.
Summer sits right down in the backyard
and says, "Listen to me, you.
The sun's not done."
Heavy, like a forest fire without smoke,
as with too many blankets at night when
you're cold at first,
but later the breathing is thick,
and no windows open for a breeze,
and finally does the humid stink
drive you up and out
to the evening star layer.
Craning your neck just to the cool, glittering black,
the tilt just right for warm weather turning cooler,
the constellations tipping with the season.
Currently that tilting sun smothers in the sky.
Just for a few more days until
October finalizes the heat stroke.
Inevitable.
Teasing and joking sunlight,
in a Monty Python skit,
hints at goodbye.
We lose the light, the temperature,
the sweat,
the quiet,
ultimately to the snap sound
of cold damp Fall.
...
The amber/bright light sits hovering above,
pushing Autumn away.
Autumn that wants to be here.
It showed up last week or so,
but Summer doesn't move out so easily.
Summer sits right down in the backyard
and says, "Listen to me, you.
The sun's not done."
Heavy, like a forest fire without smoke,
as with too many blankets at night when
you're cold at first,
but later the breathing is thick,
and no windows open for a breeze,
and finally does the humid stink
drive you up and out
to the evening star layer.
Craning your neck just to the cool, glittering black,
the tilt just right for warm weather turning cooler,
the constellations tipping with the season.
Currently that tilting sun smothers in the sky.
Just for a few more days until
October finalizes the heat stroke.
Inevitable.
Teasing and joking sunlight,
in a Monty Python skit,
hints at goodbye.
We lose the light, the temperature,
the sweat,
the quiet,
ultimately to the snap sound
of cold damp Fall.
...
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