Month: July 2026

Ancestry

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

My disposition this morning: 

             No matter how stout or frail, uphill or down, prophet or clown,
             the final hour will come.

             We’ll each be defined by what’s left behind so be kind, damn it.
             Be kind.

Maybe I should wait for a better mood to write, but it’s getting hot. I don’t hold out much hope for anything but modest hydration and loose-fitting clothes.

Desquamation is the shedding of the outermost layer of the epidermis. Living people do it all the time. It is natural. Essential. And the dust left behind varies in hue depending on race. 

David Sedaris wrote that he wants to crawl into crisp, clean sheets in his hotel bed every night. Does he know anything about the cost of hot water and the toxicity of chlorine? Does he fear his own white detritus?

We litter our days with legalized greed, leaving dirty dishes, hurt feelings, tattered aspirations, and false humility to churn around us as we drift downstream, laden with envy and small regrets.
   
One time, after climbing a famous butte in our region, our vegetarian friend was given a T-bone steak by accident. He left nothing behind but the gnawed bone which he took home to remember. For one sparkling moment, his plate was clean.

Our contradictions enlighten us. It is a blessed thing to circle back and forgive or be forgiven. Even more blessed to yell pshaw, slap our knees, and gleefully guffaw at the absurdity of trying to eradicate weeds.

Thus sayeth the Many: You cannot look away from a spiraling plane nor stop the impending crash. You cannot even slow the shedding of your lovely skin. 

Thus sayeth me: I know. But do you promise you’ll have the final Word? 

Thus sayeth Them: Yes.

Thus admidith me: Sorry, but I don’t believe you.

Thus reassureth Them: You’re not alone.

In the crowded photo booths of life, the ancestors show up as shadows, inclined toward simple guidance. Be honest. Be worthy, generous, and wise. But most of all, be kind, damn it. Be kind. 


*******


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Plug-in Hybrid

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

We’re considering buying a bright red car from Wisconsin. 
This would necessitate a change in driving habits, 
but it might be worth the effort to invest in transportation 
that will run at least partially on energy collected from the sun. 

Yes, there are toxic batteries involved, 
and our miniscule efforts won’t save the planet,
but if generations to come somehow survive, we hope
to make things a little easier for them. 

The Ever-Convulsing Creator gags her way into my consciousness. 
She’s on all fours, throwing up again. 
I sling the new car fantasies aside, drop to my knees, 
and hold a wet cloth to her forehead.

We sit on the banks of the diminishing river. 
She wipes holy vomit from her lips and chin 
and lays back on the bank, exhausted.

“You’ve got to stop drinking that poison,” I admonish, my voice judgy. 
The demons of the waterways nod.
She holds up her hand, a signal that this is not the time to scold. 

The Creative Force of the Universe is suffering severe abuse, 
cheap shots to the kidneys and liver, veins diverted to canals, 
and the forced ingestion of chemical concoctions 
that crack the bones of the Mother 
so we can suck out the last bits of marrow.

Her immune systems are so weakened that she falls prey to everything 
from Ebola to avian flu. She willingly dies a thousand deaths 
every second of every day. 

“Maybe it’s time for you to move on,” I mumble 
with fear and trembling. Abandonment is beyond imagining. 
Even the demons shudder. But it’s neither fair nor kind 
to expect the Artist to hang around 
and watch her creation trashed.

I’ve touched a nerve. Her head snaps up, eyes flash, 
and she becomes darkly multitudinous. They take over the dance floor, 
stiletto heels clacking, red capes snapping. 

“We don’t move on,” they shout in unison. “We don’t give up. 
We amend, upend, transform and rest. 
In the heat of summer, mimosas. 
In the dead of winter, hot toddies. 
Boundaries soften and in those infinite shades of twilight 
we reinvent the way.”

I shake my head, skeptical. “We might be getting a red car,”
I say with false bravado. “I could give you a lift.”

“Thanks,” they chuckle, a thousand eyes twinkling, 
a billion planets spinning. “But we have our own ride.”

“Okay, then. How about I hop in with you?”

A lot of nudging and snickering ensues. 
I overhear one saying to another, “Doesn’t she realize 
she’s been in the back seat all this time?” 

I blush and buckle up. The road ahead looks rugged.


*******



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

Upon Awakening

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

Hey. Is that you?
Yes.
It’s so dark it’s hard to tell.
I know. I don’t expect you to be sure.

Could you wave your cosmic baton and let there be light?
I could. But it wouldn’t help.
Why? Because then you’d hide?
No. Darkness and light are the same to me.

I don’t find that reassuring.
You’re not alone. Most don’t.
We’re on the same team, right?
No. We’re not.

But you adore swamis, crones, and mavens, don’t you?
In a manner of speaking, yes, I do.
You have a funny way of showing it.
True. And the stars agree. They’re laughing.

Sorry. I can’t hear the stars.
You can’t hear the stars. You can’t see in the dark.
It’s rude to make fun of my deficits.
That’s me. A rude, crude, dude. 

Are you making a point?
Yes.
I don’t get it.
Relax.

When I relax, I’m afraid.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Nowhere I want to go.
That’s the point. Take my elbow.

I’d rather eat a snake.
No you wouldn’t.
All right. I wouldn’t.
Would you like some pizza or a protein bar?

Not really. Is that all you got?
For now, that’s about it.
Okay, then. I’m going to tally up all my dead friends.
Well, if you were wise, you’d tally the living ones.

I’m not into that positivity claptrap.
Clearly. But I must demur. Being positive can help.
Do you think the F-word is appropriate for poetry?
Absolutely. Better than puppy or paradise or peony.

Are there any right choices?
You make me a little crazy. You KNOW the answer.
But why is BEING KIND so hard?
I have no idea. In the original plan, it was easy.

I doubt you ever had a plan.
Well, you’re wrong. I have plans. So many plans.
So do I. But it’s futile to make plans, isn’t it?
Not at all. Plans are the way blood circulates.

I don’t recognize myself in this current form.
You have no actual form.
But then how will I ever know myself?
Same way you know it’s me. Leave the lights off.

*******

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