Posts for June 25, 2024 (page 9)

a night walk through a forest                      
                                                     of conifers aglow with mushrooms
(bitter oyster, little ping-pong
                                                     bats, bleeding fairy helmet, honey
fungus) bewitching insects to                                                 
                                                     strew their spores & fireflies (we called lightning
bugs) flashing for mates, mirror-               
                                                           ing the heavenly incandescence of the moon
& stars. How sated the air feels,   
                                                         dense & intense, a smoky dark green & I too,
radiate with the flush & fever of                                                    
                                                           pleasure & reverence; recall past glows: 1971,
falling in love for the first time,                                                     
                                                         18 & in college, car-singing tunes I swooned
over & still adore today at 71—                                               
                                                        Imagine, Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, After the Gold Rush,
I Feel the Earth Move, Me & Bob-
                                                         by McGee, Woodstock, Wild World, Maggie May,                 Stairway to Heaven.  

I wrote this poem a while back after losing another close friend to cancer.  This dreaded disease impacts just about everyone in their lives in some form, shape or fashion.  Many of us have faced the c-word with family, friends, colleagues, and even in-person.  This is my rememberance to those we have lost and to those close to us battling this terrible disease.  This is a very simple poem with a strong message.

I lost another friend today
Who battled cancer for many years,
Seeing another friend pass on,
It is hard to hold back the tears. 

The fight they fought took courage,
And the hurdles they jumped each day,
Losing another friend to cancer,
I long for a cure and brighter days. 

There once was a woman who loved a good oration
She wondered what would happen at Thursday’s confrontation
To other plans she said goodbye
Checked her popcorn supply
And waited to learn the fate of the nation

Often a haiku or tanka,
usually, forgettable 

written and saved
in case I can’t come up with
something better.

In case I turn on the poem tap
and nothing flows,

in case I have poetry
constipation.

It is reassuring to have
an Emergency Poem
in the wings,

an understudy,
who will step up
during LexPoMo
so I don’t miss a day.

Every time I leave the hospital, 
I give something new of myself away–
a certain shyness I can no longer hold
close to my body, the deeper cravings 
for a cigarette that will likely not come.

Instead, I turn and toil in the ICU,
sleep only in bursts, and then 
when I am freed to the outside world again 
the bigness of it all has so much new
choice and flavor, suddenly–

the heat wave? just a little 
needed warmth–

and I am glad to be home again
and yet I also miss being able
to push a button, receive
some limited care until I am
sick again.

If you want to know
who your real enemy is, 
look in the mirror. 

An erstwhile stoma

I tell a client to buy a bop-it
to use when they dissociate after sex.
I imagine a go-bag-hoe-bag
full of naughty knicknacks.
Wands, rabbits, plugs,
extra AA batteries so they don’t
lose the ability to

bop it

twist it

flick it

pull it.

I lost it all

In the pursuit of you

So I had nothing else to lose

When I told you I loved you

Grieving how I’ve grown out of my old shoes

Tattered and worn

Holes in the soles

But never my own

Always chasing yours

Healing isn’t linear

I wasn’t expecting it to be

But goddamn it I at least expected you to miss me

If you changed today

I don’t think it would matter

The heartbreak you sentenced me to shouldn’t have been mine to bear

You’re supposed to love me

You told me you loved me

But this isn’t love

I’m so tired of seeing your face

I’m so over screaming your name

In my dreams

On my bed

Your fingertips brushing down my spine

Speaking words that were never mine

Sunlight grazing the sheets

I wish you would leave me be

Let me be

Let me be

Leave me

Uncle Maurice buys an acre
with a green pond next to a llama
farm especially for Muriel,
his 11-year-old niece. He chops
a pile of cedar & builds an octagon
gazebo & spreads out a fuzzy
wool blanket where Muriel pores
over storybooks. He practices
harmonica & smokes Cuban
cigarillos, which are forbidden
at home. Today Muriel grabs
her dress-up doll, stuffs
a tote bag full with doll
clothes, a copy of Songs
of Humpback Whales, a sketch
pad of multicolored
papers & a box of 12 super-sized
crayons. A llama
brays, prompting a gentle
swaying of pond
like the ruffles of a prom
dress. In the shade of a Big
Leaf Maple they a nosh
on Braeburn apples & dark
chocolate. Muriel naps
& dreams she is a trapeze
artist with elegant muscled
legs turning three
somersaults in the cool
afternoon air. As the sun
heads down the peach
tinged skyscape Maurice rolls
her wheelchair close to the blanket
& bends over to lift her
up with both arms.