Posts for June 7, 2019 (page 6)

I know you are calloused and impartial,
And care not for the whims of a mere mortals like me.  

But Death,
Hear my plea,
Don’t come for my son,
Until you’ve come for me.  

It’s a common request,
One you get all the time.
And it is selfish.
I know.  

But Death,
Hear me out.  

My neighbor,
Mrs. Fergeson lost her boy.
He was 10 years old.
He strangled himself,
With an elastic headband
Hanging from his bedroom doorknob.
I think of her often.
How can you come back
from something like that?  

I think of my Aunt Lynne.
She lost her son,
In a motorcycle accident,
Run over by a semi-truck.
He was 25,
With 2 young boys of his own.
How did she find the strength,
continue after that?
How did she find,
The courage to go on existing?

I know I don’t deserve any special treatment.
I am flesh and blood,
Just like everybody else.  

But death,
I love my son.  

Don’t take him away from me.

There’s a June in there somewhere
Between the bloom and the boom
Of thunder heaving down
Inspiration to the roots  

There’s a June in there somewhere
And surely by design I resign
To the fact that there’s no
June in there somewhere  

that the lightening didn’t strike
our family
in two

I have been as a serpent in the rubble,
A devourer among great stones and fallen fruit.
I have been ever-hungry in a world devoid of bounty.
But I stand as gentle monster now,
Eight delicate hands trembling,
Before the task of rebuilding.
Barely brick by brick, but incessant in pursuit,
I will erect a monument.
A great obelisk among the wastelands,
Adorned with the name of the queen of knives.

Stationary star
nightscape motion spiraling 
circular trails glow 

Coniferous shape
white pines silhouette anchors
roots in red rivers

What a sacred place this is

     this pilgrim path I have walked many times before
So much like the life I live 
while surrounded by loving companions 
I travel my own path

Each time entering with an intention 

carrying a prayer – a hope – a burden – a desire

Walking and praying – eyes on the path –

opening myself to the experience

Today the path offers the gift of remembrance
     and reflection on a holy experience

Beneath the stately pine tree was a small table

     Pith helmet and treasure chest in place as

    reminders of a wise pilgrim on a sacred quest

At the invitation of a faithful guide

     individuals were escorted to a station on the path

Here, in this sacred space

     at a station on the path

     each one opened herself to the experience

     acknowledged her grief

     and sought a key to unlock the treasure chest

Here, on this path

     One struggled with disbelief and denial,

     One smashed the hard shell of anger and loss

Here, within this circle

     my fingers found a key hidden in the midst of dissolving clay

     and at last we all witnessed flames consume a fragile structure of straw

         and leave only ashes behind

We found that the keys that unlock
     the treasure chest of life, and death, and life beyond death

          were within our mortal clay

Once unlocked, the treasure chest held a raisin.

     Not an ordinary raisin but

the ripest, juiciest, most succulent raisin you can find

A single dancer began to weave through the path

     pausing briefly at each station

Love and loss acknowledged,

      the quest must now continue
      new pilgrims must enter the path

      the dance of life must go on

Music filled the air

     and the entire MADD Camp community
           joined the dance party

               and joyous celebration

    of life and all that goes with it!

Remember, a quest always begins with questions 
How do you catch a pink elephant?
What must one do to catch one? 
MADD campers know what to do! 
One day pilgrims on the sacred quest
will hear trumpeting and rejoicing 

The quest begins with the questions and
     the raisin

At 10:13 pm we got onto I-75 going south
I asked is there always this much traffic
She told me there is probably
A closed lane
Or two
Or an accident

But thank god it was just road work
It slows us down enough
We don’t need
A tragedy
On our hands

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen
A cop car on that road
So I sped the whole way
Thinking my destination better
Than my car’s drab upholstery

It could be the end of me any day
I could die in a 2003 Toyota Corolla S
And cause for another driver
This bottleneck
Or a pileup

The lane bent and forced us onto the shoulder
So that we were a flick of the wrist
Away from the barrier
The pavement rattled my teeth
I gripped the wheel with both hands
Wrists stiff
I wondered whether my strain might
Cause my control to waver
A surge of strength jerking us left
I tried to put the thought out of my head
How easily this 80 mph metal carriage might
Ruin our pitiful bodies from this angle

I asked does the road work ever end
She said of course not

To Vlade, Bibby, C-Webb and Peja

       This one’s for you
       This one’s for fighting the good fight
       This one’s for all the underdogs
       With every single blow of the whistle
       The league had its way
       You didn’t just battle the Lakers
       You battled the whole damn system
       Going up against genetic freaks
       Overrated superstars
       Petulant, privileged celebrities
       Literal skyscrapers of cash
       You may not have advanced
       But you came out clean on the other side
       In my mind, you’re always the champions
       Much love and much respect

Sincerely,
       A fan

Will we or won’t we make it
to the next minute
Let’s smoke a cigarette and find out
then let’s smoke another
until we’re on oxygen and got sugar
that’s the only way to pass the minutes
a quarter a piece or will you take a dime
for the sit and stare, configuring where it all
belongs in your house or another’s
look at this pretty thing
my right foot’s an eight, my left’s a nine
I don’t want for nothing and couldn’t get it
even if I tried
How much you pay me to take it all
off your hands; I’ll clear a spot
Take me with all my stains
into your house and pretend you love me
like a rusted out Bundt pan, a cracked mirror, 
a cane-bottom chair the blind man at the depot fixed
Let’s just go piddle why don’t we
and see if she’ll take any less
for this bad old cat
for this flash flood
for the garbage man to haul away
next year or the next
I wouldn’t give you a nickel for my sister
They come, sweet & damp, hair sprayed
It’s their first stop
It’s the drill down of the moment
She stooped, he a veteran, Ford Taurus
It’s the folded down socks, the creased jeans, the careful blouse
That’ll make a nice gift for somebody
I left my arm-brella in the car
but
I got five dollars
I gotta spend five dollars

I’ve never been a fan of pants.

But sometimes,

a newly washed pair of jeans

feel just like your hands

on my hips.

And at that moment,

I decide they’re not that bad.

This is how the forest regenerates:
It is the grey squirrel’s nature
to bury hundreds of nuts,
to repossess only
the most proximate, opportune.
Those harder-to-reach,
those inearthed in the mud of relentless
rainstorms, those stuck
among persistent predators, it forgets,
and with time
they germinate, new nourishers
of whole ecosystems.

Your legacy is greater than early
consumption,
your shell stronger than the teeth
of mammalian instinct.

He was always
going to forget you,
and this too
is an investment.