How they corner and break us

The claustrophobic holding, waiting, attention contracted in each creak and sound, the bending forward, the ache and burning, the way the mind races forward trying to know every single aspect of the feeling of despair, the fear, the grief, the strength of certainty that there is a limit, a breaking point, though it remains unclear whether it is this moment or a distance still, and the lack of distance between the grip of the walls, and the flexing in preparation, the agile made concrete, to pounce to pound to wail on the predators stalking, should they dare reveal themselves, crouched in ready, crouched in hiding, crouched until exhausted… devoured by the encroaching, inevitably consumed by it all… so that maybe when death reveals itself in a uniform, maybe there is at least sky beyond him… maybe beyond the endless terror, there is freedom again.

 

 

 

 

Dear Kevin (this probably won’t be a poem)

It’s funny how you jump in and out.

Jess said you show up in her dreams every few months,

I said, wait - me too. Though in truth 

I think it’s only been two or three times since.

We kind of laughed a million miles away from one another, about how easy it was to imagine 

-you-  doing that to everyone. How many people do you visit? Making the rounds? Is it one each night or do you bounce like tigger between each pillow

Into people’s sleep-

to this one you say hi,

to this one you share news,

this one sing a lullaby,

for this a hidden truth,

I think I’m still mad at you. 

Like I’m mad at everyone who died too early. Krystin and Hallie, Tyler and my Uncle. Whether I was close and personal or distant… sad at the loss of what could be. Pissed at the emptiness where you should be. 

But death is also funny like that. Because you jump in and out, and sometimes it’s a sadness, and sometimes a laughter, and sometimes an anger and sometimes a memory that can’t really be categorized so easily. And in between, these days I don’t remember… and that’s ok. 

But keep visiting, sprite like, as long as it doesn’t tie your soul to some agony. I know a lot of people would be happy to see your smiling face. 

Sloth

 

What good are my thoughts and prayers, 

when the children were shot while praying?

My empathetic heartbreak, my sending good vibes, my words spoken or unspoken, 

when they were bombed while their heads were bowed? 

My learning, my teaching, my shouting from the roof tops,

when they died with G-d's name on their nutrient deprived lips?

My holding space for, consoling, and rage filled grief, 

when news of the next preventable tragedy is already breaking?

When the sin is not that the devil took up arms in the mind of an individual, 

but our collective inaction, without malice, stumbling into utter negligence, 

witnessing each tragedy unfolding, and doing nothing,

when the creator has given us all the ability, tools and reason...

and we can't be bothered to raise a finger. 

 Near my home 

There is an anorexic Eiffel 

A radio tower cousin, dominating the skyline 

I can see it from my office a mile away

But today

As I approached

It had nothing on the beauty 

Of the creator’s sky, the reflection of the sun on the clouds behind,

And I wonder if that French tower knows the same truth.

Note

 I just saw the funniest thing, a poem from a long time ago got flagged with a content warning. I'm not even really sure why, it was about feeling hurt, left out, ashamed, guilty, defensive, etc... angst? drama? relationships!!! I don't think there was even anything in it that was like violent or sexual. 

But it's funny that someone would take the time to flag that one since there are posts on here about violence and sex and other "adult" topics. So weird...  I don't even really know when this post was flagged... maybe it was way back in 2011?  I wonder if it was a single word choice. Kind of like how the administration is banning things based on a word list and not really looking at the content.  I don't really care to repeal... seems silly. I was just looking at the content guide, and it said they can erase your blog and your google account for violations. I can't even imagine... I mean... maybe I should be printing this stuff or backing it up elsewhere. SOOOOO WEIRD. 

Maybe my poem for today should be about censorship and burning the american flag (it is in the news again). 

Anyway, this is a blog of personal poetry and creative writing. It's not meant for everyone... and reader be warned... it's bad poetry, so much so that sometimes I don't call them poems but flowings... as in, flowing out of my mind.

 On the 466th day, or just each yesterday since 1948, or the crusades, the exodus, the unfortunate story of humanity…

I heard a story on the waves of another hospital bombing,

And I noticed I didn’t say my customary prayer,

               As I would, had an ambulance sped by

               Or a bus gone off road

               Or a shooting (with disgust on my tongue)

And I was reminded of what Alyssa said about holding too much empathy at once,

Short circuiting the system, burnout, compassion fatigue

And how Ani said rather than holding anyone to account, we’ll drive out of range

And how my anger, sometimes, is the only thing that remains

To hold the line,

 

And when I asked what we should do, (when tearing everything down is the only real answer,)

- we could only come to an agreement, to ask of ourselves, of others

to keep the worry, the outrage, the prayer on our lips.

To seal their deaths with a kiss

(Missed yesterday😒 wrote this this morning about yesterday, I guess we will see if I write another tonight) 

Social anxiety

If you had seen me today,

I might have appeared triumphant,

Arms spread wide,

In my casual stride, 

With a smile just as bright and eyes sun lit. 

And on the inside, I was rehearsing lines, 

affirming my life, 

Softening the tight knotted 

muscles of my stomach

I walked the block for 15 minutes, 

Arriving too early for our summit,

And when you arrived

I wrapped my arms for a hug 

And pushed the thought out

That I’d already buggered it

And for two hours I fought

with a backstage thought 

About the volume of my voice

Amongst the clamoring noise

And the croaked choked passage  

where by breath caught

Like my pancakes, my stories were half chewed

No punchline to make, cart besting the horse 

Dismissing the intrusive thought to turn the joke lewd,

My tongue jumbled my words,

 and made the awkward worse.

But as I faded into mumbles to end it, 

You left me with a compliment…

said I’d been the best part.

So I should have left -a full heart, instead

My mind spent the next part

Worrying…

Have I given her the wrong impression? 

Walt’s Maple

 I used to think of that tree as ours

One side turned to the road another towards

the screened in porch.

We’d marvel 

     Not knowing anything, except it’s curious 

Bloom, how the leaves took different shapes,

How half reached for the sky while the 

Other clung,

How outwards vibrant green turned to red

While the inward yellowed and browned, 

A divided tree, 

      We wondered aloud at its differences

   Wondered even if, it was a graft some part gifted to the whole, an addition, too special

But this year, I watched the tree alone, 

as the branches reaching toward our porch did not bud, 

Walt told me the roots -not pruned, had choked it dry, 

And I,

By myself, cleaned the porch in which you used to sit, 

   The living room in which we played,

The dining area in which we ate,

The bedroom where we once laid,

     And then set out, saying goodbye alone, to Walt’s maple, no longer yours and mine

 (well maybe still mine). 

New life

 G-d carved her knife along the lines of my feet, find myself walking down a new street, murals of divinity, geometric patterns, an icecream shop to be, and me with my dance moves, at the walk up coffee dispensary,  waiting impatiently for an Americano.

She with a blade so thin, I couldn’t feel it move within, and still sometimes wonder if my path was divided at all. Multiplied, and I am in a brand new St. Paul apartment staring at the lightning grasping across a breath of sky. Forking, a life untied, unmoored, set free, and somewhat ruefully seeking new security. 

And of the limitless paths unspooled, which will this thread bear? I ask for the highest and greatest- of that which is unfathomable, my pleasure a trifling annoyance as is the drip of chalk dust in my office -off hundred year old bricks which she is scraping, to me a nuisance, to them a returning, a riffing, a new way forward. 

Everything expanding, and all of us cloying to what we once knew, or believed we knew, or at least felt at one time determined to hold, and she with her sharp embrace, telling all of us no. Be!  she commands and scattering we flee, shards glorifying that infinite synonym of me. Each division compelling us forward, into what we can never be certain. 

Dinosaurs (may 2018?)

 Amongst the flighted, 

at the lake of isles,

I spot,

The long legged, narrow beak.

A hose necked, high rise

blue and white and black,

Surveying the glistening waters, and the prairie surrounding,

In all it's majestic prehistory, 

Still skittish to my presence. 

I spot also,

a tiny brown thing,

Fluttering, waving from stock  to stock of the weightless golden pond grass, 

A burst of a launch each time,

across the distance from flowing strand to flowing strand,

Always catching talons first, in show 

of minuscule carnality. 

Heart Song (Nov 2019?)

 Heart song

What does it mean to know someone’s heart song? To vibrate just so,

Perhaps how to manipulate the strings, to pluck, to push?

The sound of longing for

someone,

to hold your heart just so,

to make room to allow for bounds,

Reverberations, 

To hold that breath,

In rhythm, 

to hold that space, 

In concert,

To be sensitive enough to the tone,

That as it swells, they grow

And as it wanes they enfold. 

A mindful musician, allows the melody to evolve, 

to change, 

to repurpose old notes and bridge them to new movements, 

a medley is unfolding, 

a dissonance 

giving way 

to a joyfully familiar refrain.

Forgive me these tears

 

Why have I not written you a poem?

I asked myself that throughout our time, 

not wishing to malign, to concretize, or mislabel,

because the muse did not move me to feel so drawn - I worried that I didn’t feel compelled, and that that meant something. 

And it did mean something.

 

I sit with my heartbreak now, most days managing well, 

That’s what they say, anyway.

 

Sometimes, 

I miss the subtle ways, you infiltrated my day with comfort and ease. 

The created space, in which I could shift the weight and just be, 

The lack of task, of drive to compete, 

The loving gift -to feel rather than editorialize,

That was my why – each and every time. 

 

And sometimes even, I miss the twist, 

the way I could ignore my existence -and dwell on yours, 

that care taking role, the letting go 

myself on hold, to be yours… 

overthinking each little thing, 

despite it not being asked for, 

and not expected. 

 

I guess this is your rose, 

And maybe now with the floodgates open, 

I can close out our chapter, and move to the next 

I’ve never been great at letting go,

But forgive me, I’m also not so good at remembering.