Hospice Red Flags
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The power of words
I have been working through the power of two ordinary words–insubstantial and last.
Sometimes the forms we use to write can seem arbitrary or essential–poetry might be either feint or love song, prose the empassioned plea or the ordinary transmission of thought.
So to have two words with such strong ties to poetry and be stuck in prose seems remedial.
Remedial. Another place to dwell in the in-between.
Last is powerful.
Last supper
Lasting love
It is either the end or the enduring.
While insubstantial could be a sum of cash, a minor wound, a flimsy shelter in the wind.
Or it could be the kite by which we see the strength of wind.
The papery thin construction of human meaning.
The space of a commercial on tv.
I will still abide with these two words, still puzzle over their highest use.
Prose until I can adequately distill ordinary nourishers into
…strong drink.
War Paint/Girlchild
I have a friend who punctuates correspondence with the lovely benediction–know you are loved.
Elegant, but a bit abstract for some of us.
I love you–more direct, but can you believe me?
Sometimes celebrity can be a strong drug. Knocking out some of our healthy need for solitude, privacy, anonymity, and humility.
When you lost the fight with Holms I grieved with you. Her win was methodical and clearly well-thought out. But some of us love you for your slugger’s heart.
You did not need to hide your scars on the way home. We all have them.
Glory in the well-earned blows.
But watch out for the body paint. SI has been treating legit female athletes like sex doll pin-ups for years. Playing to the testosterone of their average-joe readers is not good enough anymore.
Women like you deserve to have the paint of your fame be in each well-fought achievement.
Not your sex appeal.
Keep your clothes on and fight girl. Know you are loved.
Love Don’t Say
love don’t say
Whatevs, Girl
Love plays for keeps
Wraps itself around the words and places where you been
Leaves the have out on purpose
Because when you were young, you…
But when you are old you will..
Know this loss
Feel what it is
To not be found
Without you, Girl
A writing assignment
My darlings,
I owe you a writing assignment. Clear diction, even sentences.
Instead
I give you loose
Verse
Words spilled together on the floor of my anger
Over forms I filled out long ago
A victim’s impact statement
Should never just get
Lost,
Flutter to the ground through exploded sky
Drift down in a mute opera of
Tragedy
Is when the antagonist
Betrays love
That is such a simple thing
You throw a rock through
A stranger’s window
Draw lines of
Demarcation between
What we forgive and what cannot be
Forgiven is such strong
Drink
In the prayer of a child
There is anger and confusion
What God? What Prophet?
You look among these spent and bloody stones
I know he is gone, full flight
And we will all
Rise, birds in flight
In this winter-dark sky
A Tree is not a child
I plant the tree
In sight of the house
Hoping it will ease
The pain of losing you
I look to it
As the winter wind sweeps in
Tempted
To wrap a deep
comforter
Around her
Nymphan shoulders
Through the storm
This is when I know for certain
A tree is not a child
No marker, nor even
thing with living roots
Can supplant you
My lost daughter
Only fragments of an old, old story
about tears, feet, hair and costly perfume
Broken, poured out
Can signify
This loss between us
And what he is willing
To pay to bring you,
–us-
Back again
Whole.
Crap you get for Christmas
so much processed sugar
And make up, bath soaps
Festive pjs
You name it–
Well meaning people trying
To fill a void with empty giving
Insulin shots and loneliness
To gap a story so unsparing
God born in a barn
(Is bad enough)
But what is up with putting a
Newborn in a trough?
Trough? Your voice rising to the question
Why a trough?
No downy blankets here
Most unlikely place for an infant
King
Amidst the crap
Because…
Because…
That is where so many ordinary children are born
And die amidst the squalor of a loveless world
A Light shines for all of us
Not an easy path
From dung to gold
But more like alchemy
Tiny child born
To make treasure
Out of all our crap.
A Quiet Storm
we ate at this amazing burger joint tonight
After slogging through a day of wandering and
Words less crafted than sold
We waited
The last two burgers
Did not appear
Did not appear
Our server came over to say
I took the last two burgers off your bill
They are coming
But something happened to slow them up in the kitchen
A quiet storm…
Huh, I thought
All those empty words all day
And here she is
A poet.
Big Box Stories
I bet when
You thought
of the Day of Judgment
You did not realize
It would come upon you
In the Walmart checkout line
Or some place like that–
Long lines
Tired employees
Lurid magazines
Shouting things like
“The terrible death of cheesecake”
Or
“Vegan chili cheats on Cher”
But I am here to tell you
I have seen it
There.
The Day of Ultimate Truth
Right there in the checkout line
At any big box
Store.
How bad do you want
That case of diet soda?
Bad enough to lose your cool?
Or are you the
Mother and father
So focused
On this beautiful child
Between you
This is family
He never said it wouldn’t be
A pop quiz.
The Keepsake Heartbeat
I research two sides
Of the exact same
Human story–
Old men’s eyes
injected with
The stem cells
Of children
(To ward off a besetting blindness)
So small they call them
Blastocysts
Because it is easier to
To tear
Someone apart if
We call them
Blastocysts…
Not the same
As the Doppler
Searches across the mother’s
Skin
For a tiny
Keepsake heartbeat
Some-where-Some-One
Always loves
These little ones
No matter what we might
See or not choose
To see
about their
Fragile legal status
Or translucent eternal
Skins.
Carrying Light 