Month: June 2026

To Be a Bird

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Reassurance is hard to come by these day, but immediate dense caloric intake helps me cope with the onslaught of morning news. Not long ago, breakfast included a half bottle of dark beer, but it isn’t worth the hassle anymore. The untouched supply of porter in the pantry speaks to the acute nature of the troubles. A swig or two of leftover wine is about all I can handle.

So tell me, kind companion, how is it with you in the morning?

I’m trying to accept my fate, but I cannot wait to be a bird. I’d like to be a magpie, but a crow or raven would be fine. Sparrow. Starling. Even an Arctic Tern. I just need wings and an internal map that reveals the direction of each season. Also, if I fall from the nest, the Big Hand will be there to scoop me back up.

Some may assume I’m referring to the hand of their God, but I’m not. The merest touch of those exclusive Gods leaves a dangerous odor that risks rejection from the protective flock. Like anyone who makes meaning from ancient texts, I twist scripture, hoping to curry favor with the Source and thus ensure an orderly eternity.

Tell me, beloved, how is it you curry such favor?

The Good Graces have gone missing. There are grave implications for a universe careening out of control. Harsh, lonely, and forever. No maestro. No emcee. Therefore, I’m learning to speak the languages of stone and helpless infants. Of microbes in the soil. Of fatted calves, long thin beans, and garlic.

Tell me, friend, what languages are you working on?

In my native tongue, I ask repeatedly about the saving of us all, but things remain inconclusive. We’re not easily preserved. We’re shaped like eggs with shells that break from within and without.

We drape ourselves in colorful flags to signal unity: Queer, straight, soldier, snake. The Jolly Roger, Old Glory, and the Union Jack. Loyalties rigidify. Edges fray.

Tell me, cherished one, is belonging worth the cost?

Today I will partake as I’m able and drape myself in whatever comes. It may be the blessing of purple linen or the banality of polyester. Most likely, it will be the wrong size. I’ll roll up the sleeves, pin the waist, and tighten the buckles. Or rip a seam to ease the pressure of something too small.

Someday, I’ll need nothing but feathers. With bones hollowed and wings unfurled, I’ll rise up, gracefully negotiating the downdrafts. This is what I’m awaiting.

So tell me, my dearest, what is it you’re awaiting? And what is it you believe?

Solstice

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

There are vast deposits of nature’s oddities, discarded treasure, and shiny objects tucked away in the nooks and crannies of my life. All that regenerative potential should bring joy. A sense of purpose. Right? Instead, I am bound and gagged by my own good fortune.

I’ve tried to hack free from the bonds of salvation and travel lighter, but when I manage to get rid of something, seven or eight similar items appear and repopulate the collection. Or, within days, I realize I threw away the one thing I truly needed. And this includes certain types of people.

Perhaps the solution is to want nothing and need nothing. Turn my back on all those possibilities. Grin at the fool in the broken mirror but then move on. Let shards be shards. Empty the closets, the barns, the basement, the attic. Empty the soul.

But how?

Bonfires come to mind, but there are restrictions due to the drought. And the smoke and thermal waves rising from burn piles and bombings are disturbing. The trapped gasses of humanity are slowly broiling the surface of the earth. I hate adding to the roiling disaster.

I’ve tried giving things away, but bequeathing is fraught with misunderstandings or rejection. And attempting to add organic matter, stir, and compost a lifetime supply of wheel barrels and hollow-core doors would be irreversibly toxic in its own way.

“What about burying your troubles in a deep pit?” whispers the Excavator. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Have digger, will dig, eh?” I elbow Infinity.

The Excavator flexes, and even though I still possess a modicum of faith, I back away.

“Go restore a riverbank or something, Ex. I’m NOT going to bury everything.”

“Not everything, darling. Be selective. Choose a few token articles or worthless people, toss them in the pit, and I’ll cover them up. You can provide my alibi.”

“I have neither the time nor the strength for that kind of discernment. Have you seen that lumber pile with all those rusty nails screaming tetanus? Even if there were seven of me, we’d have no chance. And I can’t provide your alibi. I’m mortal.”  

The Excavator lifts its Golden Bucket, and suddenly, there are endless versions of me, doubled over in the garden pulling weeds. The Jester begins a ridiculous rap.

The weeds keep winning, 
but the party’s beginning. 
Multiplicities prancing.
The Longest Light dancing. 
The Amazements are serving cocktails.

This too shall pass
So don’t sit on your ass…

Dark clouds burst into laughter above the entire assemblage. The drought has ended. And a recently dug hole the size of Texas is filling with runoff from the sweet, sweet rain.

The Enormity of Managing Kefir

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

Gods are so innocent they wait for praise like children.
Praising, dear one, let’s be generous with praise.
Nothing is ours. We set our hands lightly on the necks
Of unbroken flowers….
                                --From Elegy by Ranier Maria Rilke
Here on the homestead, we make granola 
and resent each other when the supply dwindles. 
Making granola isn’t difficult, but once done, 
it seems like it should last indefinitely.

And don’t get me started on the challenges of kefir. 
There are living organisms involved. 
It’s nearly as demanding as sour dough or the chickens.

As the years roll by, we tell ourselves we deserve a break. 
We want to engage in leisurely travel, 
create praiseworthy works of assemblage art, 
write profound treatises on profound subjects, 
and land a bestseller. But time dwindles.

We rush home from our trip to the dump 
to feed the kefir grains or cover the squash seedlings 
due to the impending frost. 
Our fantasies rarely align 
with the mundane demands of existence. 
And who praises the mundane?

“How do you do it,” I ask Creative Force, my voice a little testy.
“Do what?”
“Let go. Remain background to the false foreground.”

Creative Force dissipates into a remarkably long exhale.
“Come back,” I beg.
A barbed silence ensues. Edgy. Meaningless. 

Sometimes, I imagine communal life 
as a way to lighten the load. Many hands. 
Light work.  In these sepia tinted dreams, 
I’m the Godmother of a magnanimous mafia 
dedicated to extorting the good in humanity, 
offering protection from existential angst 
for a modest fee. There are flaws in this vision.

Sometimes, we invite neighbors over 
to eat rhubarb banana bread and join us 
in our search for the essence of life. 
But they rarely come.

Perhaps it’s the wording of our invitations. 
Rhubarb is not a crowd fav. And they have pets. 
Children. Unfinished businesses. 
Or ailments that impede movement 
or prohibit such topics of conversation.

Creative Force has reconfigured themselves 
into a small flock of sheep grazing by the river. 
I approach with caution.
“Are you here to eat grass?” I ask.
 
Our pasture is overgrown; the grazing would be a gift.
I yearn to gaze into those liquid brown eyes 
and offer unconditional adoration, 
but they don’t even lift their heads. 

A sudden, wrong-headed hunger overtakes me. 
Humans cannot convert grass to protein. 
To quell this rising panic, I begin the long trek home, 
aware that I may perish along the way. I accept that. 
But I am also aware that there’s a chance I’ll make it 
and there’ll be a little granola left. 

For now.
For which I shall offer praise and thanksgiving.




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

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN), and for a mere $13.99 you can torment your soul every day. Xoxoxo

Amputations (for Monica and Joyce)

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Photo Credit: Deborah Drain

An amputation does not remove the brain’s neurological urge to communicate with the missing limb. The brain says “move.” Nothing happens. Phantom pain is a chronic reminder of what isn’t there anymore. This is how grief works.

I once believed reality consisted of connections from one tangibility to another, but now I realize it’s constructed of sweet, impossible longings, memories, and the scent of rain. It is the intangibilities that answer when we cry in the night.

You may think you can rely on the Gods of your choosing, but they prefer time away from the maddening crowds. Thus, they amputate. But like starfish and newts, our extremities sometimes grow back for a season.

“That they do,” the Chief of Amputations laughs. “Which means our work is never done.”

The regenerative properties of patience and detachment are no match for evolution, opposable thumbs, or autogenesis. When you fold, you become less linear. Your grasp weakens. Where you begin and end is no longer clear. And chemical reactions occur in this process, creating alloys of enormous strength. For instance, combining iron with carbon creates the steely spines we so admire.

Scientists argue about the potential power of bending, doubling, and scrunching. And though most origins-of-life paradigms rest on linear pattern recognition, there’s a kind of salamander in Mexico that can regrow its own heart.

As your life moves along, you’ll notice that any given moment does not want to yield. But it cannot come along. Notching the tree to find the way back is foolish. There’s no way back, and trees don’t live forever. Regardless of your timeline or preferences, you will gradually morph into certain versions of your mother.

Besides Chief of Amputations, it may be comforting to know that a few of the Creators’ favorite names are The Moving Target, Now of the Now, Connective Tissue, and finally, Dog Rolling in Grass.

So roll in the Now. Gaze at the haunted horizons while you try on the scarves and hand-me-downs left behind. Some will fit. Some won’t. Load the car with donations or convert everything into rags. You’ll be none the richer either way.

View the future filtered through the translucence of honey, admire the noble ways of spiders, and if it is within your power, fill the open mouths of children. In the heat of the day or the dead of night, the banalities of life release their hold, but the radiance remains.