Posts for June 1, 2019 (page 7)

A tree
even   twisted by storms
            split by lightning or locusts
            dwarfed by lucky buddies
still surges upward toward sun
and downward for grounding
        sending sap where needed
        cleansing air for all the world
still shelters birds
and bugs of all sorts
heals its injuries
or invites owls into them
even a limb broken and fallen
gives and receives.

People, though, with brains and souls
can get so gnarled by hate
that they burst open
seething egos
and dynamite-laden
vices.

What solace is there
for grief
that is like a hollow
stump
with no hope
of sap?

It can be tricky when the universe has your back.

Sometimes, It will snicker in your ear
and when you whip around to confront it
It’s nowhere to be found
and you’re alone
again
waiting
again
struggling
again

Sometimes, It will find you on a set of stairs
clumsy as you are
It will tap you on the shoulder
throw off your balance
maybe even give you a good shove
just to see if you know It’s really there
and It is
always there
waching
you
testing
you
nudging
you

Sometimes, It will pull you with a giant bear hug
claw at your essence
grip you with boa constriction force
(ever the shape-shifter)
reassuring you that Its presence is natural, strong
your lungs exapand and contract
and each time you exhale
It clenches tighter
your breath escapes
your lungs cannot fully inflate
your panic sets in
you
are
defeated

Sometimes, It will punch you in the gut
hard
like the schoolyard bully proving his worth
with blows pummeling your tiny body
you can’t cry
because strength
before
honor
before
defeat
before
humiliation

Sometimes, It sets your room on fire
after It dismantles the smoke detector
you choke on interrupted dreams
that escape you
that taunt you
that create you

Sometimes, It will surprise you
with a gentle caress
lulling you into a false sense of security
in the warm afternoon sun
in a stranger’s patient smile
in a resurgence of hope

It can be tricky when the universe has your back

Sometimes. 

The absurdity of my life
waves its fingers at the edge of my vision.
I refuse to turn my head
to look at why I’m still here.

Months in my new calendar were mispaginated,
half of July sewn in the back of the calendar,
part of November floated somewhere in a group of blank pages.

I snipped the brown thread binding apart
and regrouped the sets of pages,
used pink embroidery thread to sew the calendar back together.
There, now, wasn’t that clever? 
An attempt to salvage
and control the rest of my days
by numbering them
and writing down appointments birthdays holidays plans for the future–
Ha! future!–
creating structure for myself
so there is some semblance of meaning
in what otherwise would be
an indeterminate number of days
of waking up
and breathing
and going back to sleep–
I shoved it all from the periphery,
to the back of my brain
where I can’t see fully it. 

I unfocused my eyes,
pricked my finger,
jolting my attention
back to the pink thread,
the silver needle,
the first entry in my calendar–
a spot of blood.

how to hold
for c.g. and m.a. on their wedding day

how to hold, how do i hold
how to hold—do i hold you?
know how to hold you?
have the know-how
to do what you need
to hold, to hold now?
to have and to hold, know
and how—oh how—i hold
have to do what you need
now, need to have, hold
know-how, have the need
know just how, know
the need, have the hold
have, hold the oh—just
now is what you need
have what you need
and hold, do hold
to need and know and you
i do—oh, how i do

i should have known
when you said
you were
deathly allergic
to spearmint.
so
that’s the only kind of gum
i buy now.

If I licked my finger and rubbed it across,
it would smear–
my mother’s signature still intact,
still distinctive, still recognizable,
still witnessing my not good enough
grades, the physical evicence still
there on yelow note card,
as permanent there as in my mind
unless I add it to the shredder pile,
unless I can let it go.

the last people i let love me
dug their fingers into their hands
wondering why should they
give away a love nor thin
or unforgiving

it was you in the middle
of a week. to take me to
dry sand and three sips
full of your anything and my
courage to come in front
of you. spilling guts
in the best sense till you’ll
disappear like a genie
soft in its vessel
innocence in circumstance

The road named for a village in France,

Where a soldier boy crept from hedges

To battle the Kraut, with fear mixed bravery.

His black bordered-death letter told his kin.

Colville, his renamed road became, a memorial far

From the shriek of tank and gun. Tribute to a blood

Soaked field that drained each tender dream from

An ashen boy close beside a village thus named.

Across foam flecked expanse of sea, with span

His mother could not fathom, there stood his place,

A dusty mile of thirty houses, a store, quarry pond  

From slave cabin and fields to covered bridge,

Once he hid in bridge’s shadow to kiss a girl, begged

Cider drink at the cabin and daily walked to school. .

Fitting it should now carry the name from where death

Snatched his last full breaths and rang the angelus bell.

Follow with me as my shaky pen scratches tales

Found down Colville road, of stories he did not live

to know along a path named because this boy died

Alone under boom of guns a world away in France.