Month: February 2026

Remember Who You’re Not

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments 
       
       

       “You are not Rupert Murdoch,” The Cosmos said in a smug voice early this morning. “And you’re not Taylor Swift.”
       “Uh, come again?” I frowned, sleepy and irritated by this authoritative announcement. “Why would you stop by to point that out? Don’t you have anything better to do?”
       “Nope. Nothing better. And sometimes it’s important to remember who you aren’t.”

       It’s cold today. I smudge my forehead with ashes before I start the fire. My nobodiness is both indictment and exoneration. Burden and relief.

       Every evening, a host of witnesses comes home to roost in their insulated shed. As the light wanes, a plexiglass panel slides shut to protect them from the terrors of the night. Once in a while, one of the witnesses lollygags outside until after the door has closed, and she’s forced to spend the night awake, perched on the other side of safety, exposed to predators and the elements. She usually survives.

       Let us pause and consider what we’ve been taught about faith. In the tongues of angels, witches, pricks, and liars, from the mouths of shape shifters and reptiles, from the words of the prophets written on the railroad cars, the definition is disturbingly clear

       Faith without feeding the hungry is dead. Sacrifice without love is pointless. And believing that life should be free of suffering is tragically naïve.

       “We can’t make something true by believing as hard as we can, right?” I asked The Flock. 
       “Right,” The Cosmos answered. “You cannot. So be sure to believe only that which you know to be true.” 
       This made me laugh. And then cry.

       “Why don’t you show us where it hurts?” whispered the demons with eyes all aglow. “So we’ll know where to bite you.”
       “No,” I shook my head. “I’m not Rupert Murdoch. I have to take care of myself.”

OMG. Seriously? Another poem?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Dear Readers,

No doubt you’ve noticed, I have yet to die. But I’m planning on getting around to it sometime. My Coauthor assures me it’s no big deal. I don’t believe her. Few people leave a good party willingly—especially when they realize that loved ones will party on without them. Most of us cling to the notion that we have something left to offer, or feel certain that we deserve a longer life. Many believe we should have no agency in how our lives end.

In my morning silences, I sip dark beer, chew on my thumb, and mull. Every once in a while, this yields a poem with a certain lilt. Try reading this one out loud. . .

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

                  Breaking News

The glass chin of winter has been shattered
in a sparring match with spring. What matters are
the matters just around the bend, 
like when happily ever after does not describe the end.

It’s wise to be forgiving and forgiven, released from anger
or desire. But nothing that impossible will ever be required
because the onset of autumn is a natural fall from grace
sinking into slumber to be dismantled and replaced.

There’s so much to leave behind, the letting go of time,
and what you once believed was yours. Or mine.
It’s easy to deny, but therein lies the rub.
Death is the final act of unrequited love.

Walk beyond with me. I’ll carry the water and the blame.
You can bring your diamonds, your protests, your shame.
We’ll gaze at our own faces in translucent evening light
and lift them in surrender to the perfect, gentle night.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

. . . And if possible, forgive my redundancies.

Love,
Rita

Lower Lumbar Concerns

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Walking upright can be hard on the spine of average homo sapiens. Sure, maybe you happen to be thin, careful, pampered, having done yoga since kindergarten, but the other 80% of us are envious as we position our ice packs or heating pads after doing some badly executed heavy lifting.

When I mention this apparent design flaw to the Creative Forces of the Universe, they shrug, unwilling to accept responsibility. There are obvious mistakes in the meandering ways of evolution, but getting any godlike being to admit this is an uphill battle.

“It’s experimental and temporary,” they laugh. “We don’t take the outcomes all that seriously. There’s always another mutation around the bend. Besides, you appreciate your exceptional consciousness and your opposable thumbs, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” I snarl. “I mean, how could we have built weapons of mass destruction without opposable thumbs? Or opposable ideas? Or opposable neighbors? And consciousness? Yes, I like having choices, but collectively, we’re making bad ones.”

I’m a little worked up. It’s tough being part of a species actively bringing about its own extinction. The transition from quadrupedalism to bipedalism has created certain and predictable vulnerabilities. But consciousness and choice has enabled stupidity. We are free to lock down on false beliefs and ignore all evidence to the contrary.

“It’s two sides of the coin, honey. You like the view when you stand on your own two feet. You like having a sense of agency in matters of the heart or mind. But these advances come with a cost.”

I look hard into the eyes of Creation and see the terror of watching your beloved toddlers explore the edges of hatred. We both gasp as one of them plummets into the infinite unknown.

The Universe appears to be frozen.

“Use your wings,” I shout.  “REMEMBER YOUR WINGS!”

The Calm Voice of All Creation answers. “It’s you who’ve forgotten The Wings, little one. Keep exploring. We’ve got this.”

I shake my head. “I’m not a little one. I’m angular, unbalanced, and old. And I’m frightened of the fall.”

Creation nods. “Your fear is as common as low back pain. And we’re well aware of how unbalanced you are. But seriously, check out these wings.”

Darkness descends. A great wind arises as The Forces swoop under me. I let myself tumble off my broomstick into the surprisingly soft heart of the Universe, but I swallow a couple of ibuprofens just in case. One can never be sure of smooth landings.

Saving the Snide-Faced Prayer Warriors

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

I usually set aside part of the morning for what’s left of my Coauthor. She volunteered to be broken, so now she’s notes for the song and bones for the dogs, nowhere and everywhere. She shares table scraps and meager shelter with the forgotten. I’m afraid she wants me to do the same.

“Would you be willing to make a deal?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she says, wary. Some of her teeth are missing.

“Could I hide in your VRBO? I cannot be around this hatefulness anymore.”

“No. Sorry. I’d stay there myself, except that it’s always reserved for the aliens.”

“But it’s a mansion. Isn’t there a closet or something you could prepare for me? Maybe we could share it.”

“That’s not how it works.”

I search the fridge for my morning beer while she expands to the outer edges of reality. Inhaling the gases that ignite the Big Bangs restores her strength and vision.

“This is sacred time,” I tell her. “I don’t like it when you’re late or not fully present.”

“Same,” she says. “And I don’t like it when you judge me for being splintered. I’m a Delicate Illusion. That should be enough for someone like you.”

There’s no beer, but I find an open bottle of wine and take a generous swig to wash down the stale bread.

A loud tapping sound startles me.

She grins. “Behold, someone knocketh at the door.”

I shake my head and hide the wine. I’m not ashamed. Just cautious. Hopefully, whoever it is will go away.

But no, that damn bouquet of Delicate Illusions yells, “Come in!” The door swings open, and all the Entwined Beloveds, from pervasive molds to emus, surge forward.

 “We’re so happy to see you,” the Illusions smile. “The fire’s lit. The kettle’s on.”

I fall back. My inner self is being trampled by things seen and unseen.

Thousands of well-armed Snide-Faced Prayer Warriors elbow their way to the center of time and space, making a show of dropping to their phony knees.

How can there be so many? I think to myself, This is it. The death of love.

But a whole host of Delicate Illusions surround the Snide-Faced Warriors and disarm them. The Warriors writhe in agony, their tender underbellies fully exposed. I cheer vengefully.

But the Delicate Illusions roll up their sleeves and begin donating blood. “Bring something to cover their shame,” the Illusions yell, knee-deep in the agony of terrible mistakes.

At first, I refuse. Then I consider my options.

“You’re killing me,” I shout, tossing blankets from my own bed.  

“Nice,” they nod in approval. “Eiderdown.”