Bedside Meditation Tanka

stocked bedside table
with beloved poetry
can only manage few lines
pray language flows again
add white tulips for luck

Music Therapy Tanka

wheel me one floor down
tamborines, maracas, drums,
blocks, triangles
music therapy surely heals
full belly laughs for first time

Core Strength Tanka

I struggle to stand up,
sit down. My core strength gutted–
hysterectomy
took a toll but push ahead
with therapists & their tough love

He cuts off our heads
just above the eyes
but it’s the best we can expect
from clumsy little hands.

We’re smiling from high,
Natural Bridge, new love, sleeping
toddler strapped to my back,
dark clouds crowding

into the frame, bumping
shoulders in the background.
No capture of the next moment,
when the first drops plummet,

burst and splatter on our shoulders,
and we start down, hopeful
to make it back to the trailhead
before it starts to pour.

But we get caught 
by the cloudburst. My oldest
son squeals and reaches
for the sure grip of your hand

to keep him from falling
down slippery rocks in the deluge.
You hoist him onto your hip.
The baby whimpers in my ear

from beneath the sodden hood
of his jacket as you guide us
all to shelter, shadow
of a craggy ledge where we’ll wait

for the worst to pass, soaked
clothes suctioned to our bodies
like we all dove headlong
into a swimming pool.

Kids calmed now, poking at mud
puddles with a stick,
I watch the steady drip 
from the brim of your hat.

You start to apologize
for bringing us here, showers
in the forecast and all, claim
it’s your fault, a bad idea.

But I shake my head, send rivers
flowing from the ends of my hair.
This rain is so warm,
and I’m laughing.

I once dreamed my father
handed me the red ball
that his father had handed him
going back some ways
to the reservation, Oklahoma Territory,
and before that, who knows, 
it got murky,

but the ball — size of a soccer ball, 
bright red, the red of ax heads and wax lips—
contained a Pandora’s box
of maladjustments and addictions.

It was an easy enough dream
to interpret, and I set it aside for years,
until this evening,
when my daughter brought home a red ball —
size of a beach ball —
from Target.

She thinks it’s funny
I stand in the street, 
kicking the ball high up in the air,
aiming for the clouds or
at least the far end of town, 
and though I kick, and I kick,
she goes full bore 
after that red ball 
as if it were already a prized possession, 
more valuable than any other toy, 
the pursuit more intoxicating 
than the threat of oncoming traffic.

the only way to know is to ask  no
the only way to know is to search the stars that glimmer deep inside the bowels of
self  then follow where they lead
never full conviction  no answers and directions mapped out 
oh how I desire  clarity 
that’s never real anyway
step one way  then another  or both  as if a dance
this procession of beginnings  sorting through experience  turns a little
human  into master  or god  of this one life

Straniero, a stranger in multiple ways—
not only managing the keys,
the stubborn power outlets,
the mysteries of the coffee-maker,
but the tongues:
Italian wraps ‘round my lingual roof
in the early hours of Lodi, morning prayer
that’s a subtle rumble to God
as I try to form the verses
(avoiding a slip in Spanish)
and smiling as the psalmist proclaims
he’s got la forza di un bufalo with olio splendente
(and I recall last night’s caprese,
the tomatoes and mozzarella in olive oil
still tickling the palate.  

Silent tombs in the chapel of St. Isidore
bear witness in carved Latin to the Irish fathers
who rest here, magister and poeta and the rest,
their deeds etched in a faraway font, forgotten
since Father Manfred dolled it out in freshman
Latin, phrases from Cicero et. al. about
amphoram sub veste, which is never carried
honeste. But here I can only guess at what’s
sub this marble floor chill in morning air.  

And then, late night, at the table:
a Polish scholar (fresh from completing
a life’s work on Alexander of Hales) shares wine
and that tasty caprese with me as I struggle
to find the right Italian words to explain and
justify my brief existence among these sages,
living and dead.

There beneath the hum and drone
Of tablet, computer, watch, and phone
Lies quiet a place of peace and stillness
A place of rest, Where I am guileless  

It is somewhere I long to be
A place of quiet reverie
Without the din of idle words
Where no one’s voice becomes a sword  

Amid the fragrance of the trees
And the pleasant buzz of bumble bees
I remember now that this is home
This pleasant idyll where I’m alone  

blank black eyes
    look beyond and stare

     this time leave
     the trimmings

where they were cut
        and fell-
   
   on the floor
           to form her
    grand fungal tour

veinbound beneath
        shadowed earth-
            lightless leafs
 strung out loose
      
           ready to receive
      the drop of
  brown-husky flesh

              sapless veins
            cracking fresh

             * after the painting  ‘Picnic’
                                                          by Nick Gadbois

I think it’s odd that you see me in this way

Like I’m deformed and mangled

A heart of stone

A sinner with no humanity left inside

Hollow

Uncaring

Vile

You make me out to be a fucking monster

Praying for me to be made clean

That God transform my heart to one of flesh

And might I ask: what the fuck is wrong with you?

You see my person as one that’s never been so repulsive

You see my form as harrowing and cold

In reality, I’ve never been so human

Never had my heart beat so true

Never lived so fully

I’ve never been more me

God, am I glad that you’ve shown your true colors

I never should’ve given you another chance

I never should’ve trusted a mother to love her child without conditions

That would be too easy