Little stream
No one told you
You’re a river
The sun kisses you on the cheek
Here and there
While the trees, all stand and wave
Giving you a little break from the sun’s advances
they keep you from spoiling yourself on the rain’s gifts
Be kind to them, don’t forget them
You’ll keep growin’ all your days
Don’t you stop to wait and see
A mighty river you’ll be
Roaring and teeming with life
And mighty river you’ll be
In your own time
In your own way
You leave the womb
In a split second
You die unto the world
In the same way
Who am I
To judge
What happens
Inbetween.
Your cheeks, the green hill
Behind you, outside your kitchen window.
Your light, radiation
Could not keep shining.
Your whisper on the wound:
Shhhhh. Mild. Shhhhh. Mild. Shhhhh.
When I first heard
it was the barest of facts
50 dead 53 wounded
Orlando mass shooting
worst in US history
My first thought
was Disney World
I thought how
horrible that would be
A place of joy
and smiles
shot up
blood co-mingling
with melted ice cream
in the shape of
Mickey’s head
I thought nothing
could be
worse than that
but I was wrong
the details
streamed in
it was a
gay night club
That’s so much worse
because some people
Her name is Mary Lou Sutton
and she drives a white,
grey with dinge and age,
hatchback
stuffed to the gills with
teddy bears and dolls
and beanie babies
and carnival prizes.
When she gives you one you take it.
“Remember, boy,” she says
to everyone, boy or girl,
“what goes around comes around
in threes.”
Then she winks and drives off.
Steven Pratt once said no
to a ratty old dog toy
because he was worried it would dirty his suit.
His suit didn’t survive the car accident.
Neither did he.
She gives to those she can save,
those who deserve a little good in their lives,
those who are already several bricks down the road to hell;
“Remember, boy, in threes.”
And you can only hope that the little
teddy bear smile
means you’re one of the good ones.
I’ve sat in the corner of a room,
crouched on the floor in heels,
crunched between teenagers,
wondering what I would do the day
a gunman finally came.
I’m lucky to have never been targeted,
but
who knows?
I’m a teacher,
I’m a woman,
I’m a pagan,
I’m a liberal,
I’m a citizen of a country where men on no-fly lists can buy a gun.
My kids are those who
laugh when someone farts,
who get angry for fictional people who have been wronged,
who tell me they love me
and cry on my shoulder
and bring me tissues, wide-eyed, when I cry.
Some of them love men,
some of them love women,
some love both.
Some love no one,
and some of them aren’t loved by
anyone
but me.
They could be in a club someday,
dancing to a pulse,
like a countdown.
I wish I could protect them.
But I can only teach them to love,
to live free of fear,
and to live.
I hope,
to live.
The illusion falls away
giving into the euphoria
Our presence fades
in the dust of the vacuum
A veil of reality masks
reflections, ascending
to the solar domain
When mind and matter meet as one
reality is formless in cosmic unity
The ghostly reflection of spirit and soul
discards this mechanical device
in the name of balance
![Photograph edited to look like a painting](http://i68.tinypic.com/2lwllx1.jpg" border="0" alt="Image and video hosting by TinyPic"></a>)
Scarred and half vacant torso
you belong to me alone
small valleys rise
I scratch and pick
stitches refuse to dissolve
or to be torn away
like tree bark
ever growing back
self healing
but not returning
to original condition
it’s a continuous exercise
like untangling yourself
free from a spider’s web
These are my warrior wounds
that will not fade
– Jessica Swafford
Poem 12, June 12
Chester Johnson, Poem Four
I don’t know
if I want you
to write much about my service.
I still have terrible dreams
about the things I saw.
It’s unspeakable what we had to do.
It’s ungodly what they had to do.
We were young.
I will be 92 years old soon.
I have diabetic feet.
I walk as much as I can
just to keep myself going.
When I told my doctor about my memories,
he told me to go to the VA,
for they know how to deal such things.
Patton never believed a military man
could be shell shocked during World War II.
Nowadays they just call it some initials.
I never went to the VA.
You see they would have wanted
to do mental tests on me just to call me crazy.
