Worry Stone
I make the world
by rubbing my worry stone.
You make the world
by rubbing your worry stone.
Corporations say
that they own God
but they’ll never, ever own
our worry stone.
I make the world
by rubbing my worry stone.
You make the world
by rubbing your worry stone.
Corporations say
that they own God
but they’ll never, ever own
our worry stone.
Choosing a shorter haircut and primping
in a car window. Savoring
a woodfire pizza and toasting
with a craft beer. Navigating
road construction. Buying lettuce
at the farmer’s market. Reading
the next book on the nightstand.
Listening to the Reds on the radio
while sitting on the porch. Finding
a new tune for the playlist.
Moving the house plants
into the yard. Tuning in
to flashflood warnings. Wishing
for a ride in an old-school convertible.
I spread myself out in linen swaths across the sky,
poof up in puffy white and grey masses, too,
in the in-betweens— I, a virtuoso
of sky painting. My mother, Earth, proud.
I bring relief and nourishment, but yes,
I can carry deluges that carry destruction
that carry death— but I carry nothing
in hatred— no matter what those tiny
dots from below, who point long lenses
at me, may think. Now, as for the winds,
who determine my directions
and ways, perhaps the dots
might be more leary of them—
or perhaps of themselves.
I speak to unfamiliar gravestones
when I visit dead family and friends
I ask them if it’s true
that their replies are echoes in the stale air’s moans?
I ask them how they live
— now– after this life ends
I talk to unfamiliar gravestones
because I don’t know if anyone else does
I try to muster engaging conversations
about loyalty, friendship, and love
I laugh with unfamiliar gravestones
when a joke I share lands right
I listsen for their hallowed howls,
even though I know the quiet stirs the night
I watch shadows grow on unfamiliar gravestones
and take heed when the boneyard rattles
I make my way back to the living
swaying to a symphony of windspun growls and clatters
When the morning birds begin the chants
to raise the sun from its twiggy nest
I recognize the party is about to start,
an end to the hours I enjoy best,
the dropped needle quiet of middle night
the last of the rowdies off the road,
raccoons not yet fiddling with the garbage can lid.
So many times I’ve woken in that void
and needed a moment to locate the cave wall
in the pitch, interpret its grit,
find the guide rope to get my bearings again.
I start coffee and sit at the table
with yesterday’s unopened mail,
thinking of credit card offers, the news from DC,
trying to understand how the two
are umbilically connected, thoughts put on hold
while the coffeemaker wheezes
through the last of its drip.
My father’s last morning,
struggling to breathe, forced oxygen
hissing from the pillows in his nose,
my mother and I told him he could go.
Let go, we’ll be okay, we said. Let go.
And he did.
Of the Wilis’ fate in Giselle, I do wonder
If, in the end, one was still added to their number.
For what of Bathilde, at the end of day?
By Duke Albrecht was she, too, not betrayed?
Even if they married, she would always know
That her intended loved another so.
A maiden she so briefly called a friend
Before the girl’s life drew to bitter end.
Did the Wilis taunt dear Bathilde in her sleep
And make her crave the revenge that they keep?
Ah, poor Bathilde—but, such is the plight
Of minor roles when leads are out of sight.
For e’er will it remain a mystery
What you went through on Albrecht’s night of misery.
1
There was a fine lady from Versailles
who enjoyed the sight of nude males.
They’d strip off their clothes
& she’d have them all pose
while she daintily painted her nails!
2
There once was a girl from Paducah
whose boyfriend was a total palooka.
She traded him in
for his sexier friend
whose appendage was like a bazooka!
3
There once was a woman from Midway
whose beau was a chaste Green Beret.
She then met a sailor
who just loved to nail her
after which it was anchors aweigh!
Patriotism takes conviction. Patriotism keeps
