Tag: Compassion

It’s Hard to Walk Away From a Hundred Words

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

The Poet:

It’s hard to walk away from a hundred words and endure the resulting blankness, but sometimes, that’s the thing to do. Don’t lean into the streaked screen. Enter the room even if you’re confused. Grope through collapsing synapses for the forgotten face.

The Painter:

You’ve never learned to handle light. You act as if you can put it wherever you’d like. The resulting portraits are wrong. Your misshapen landscape hides under the clothing of sheep. The Light doesn’t bend at your command, but often, it will invite you to dance.

The Prophet:

You’re going to decline. You’ll blame your brilliance and claim your place in the order of things But darling, grace cannot be earned. For every star you’ve named, there are a million waiting in the wings. What are a hundred words when you consider that?

The Priest:

The Apple doesn’t fall far from intention, stolen wine does not gladden the heart, and twisted words create misery as useless as sin. But listen: The stones along the road are singing. All is forgiven. It’s safe to remember the lyrics and sing your way back home.

                                ......................................................................................................................................................
I

You can order the latest godblog book, print on demand on Amazon: I trust you can find the link. The cyber giants do not play nicely with each other.

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

Those Letters We Should Write

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Dear Mom,

You know that little desk you used for envelopes and business cards? Well, I’ve dragged it to a new place and painted the top. It’s got a paisley planetary look now. I doubt you’d like it, but you’d be impressed with my system for moving heavy things. I reduce the friction and lean in.

And speaking of friction, I need to tell you about what’s happening with the beloveds.

Remember our trip to Paris decades ago? The crowds were so vibrant and diverse you were floored. We people-watched for hours.

In the evening, you stood transfixed as hundreds of nuns rehearsed inside a backlit cathedral on a hill overlooking the city. The harmonies were ethereal.

“Never in my life did I imagine I’d hear something like that,” you said, wiping tears. “I just can’t fathom all this.”

Mom, listen. The harmonies have been stripped of complexity. Diced and dichotomized. Those colorful people are too frightened to sing, and something hateful has hardened what used to be warm hearts. No one can fathom it. We’re all watching our backs, ready to be stabbed or taken away.

You claimed you could handle yourself around guns, but I know that at least one bullet blew up in your face. Therefore, I’ll try anything but deadly force. We’ve collected some baseball bats, and the pantry is full. Mostly, we play ball and eat chips and dried mango, but we’re pretending to be ready.

No one is actually ready.

The firewood is lasting pretty well, but the temperature keeps dropping unannounced. We often suffer mild frostbite, so when possible, we gather where it’s warm and safe. Few of us realized it could get this jagged or insane, and we don’t seem able to mend and carry on. The good earth is crumbling while everyone bickers over their share and their side of the story.

You always loved the parable of the loaves and fishes. That basket of food you took to the hungry neighbors overflowed with a simple goodness we don’t see much of anymore. Buffoonery abounds—sadism cloaked as self-defense.

Of course, I understand why you stopped attending church. My Coauthor explains such things to me, but it’s awful, isn’t it? So many are choking on the thin wafers of hypocrisy and weeping over spilled wine.

The nightly news is intolerable. The strutting continues. And I’ve made some mistakes myself. I’m sorry. I continue to try to follow the advice you wrote in your birthday card to the grands:

When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

As it turns out, walking humbly may be the toughest thing of all.

Love you, and see you soon.

Stirring Honey Into Peppermint Tea

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“You know I’ve been fixated on the puzzles and denials of mortality for years, and you’ve never been much help,” I tell the Coauthor. A raised eyebrow is the only response I get. We stir honey into our tea.

I lift the cup to my lips, but the Coauthor covers my hand.

“Wait until it’s cold,” she says.

“But I like it warm.” I protest.

Steam curls around our entwined fingers.

*******

Through long stretches of indeterminant time, I sit. Waiting. Sometimes the vulture’s talons. Sometimes the ice of infinity. Visitors are rare, and I like it that way. The Crystal Ball rolls through the room, stops abruptly, and opens its cavernous mouth.

“You’re a liar,” it says.

“No,” I shake my head. “But I tell stories. That’s how I breathe.”

*******

Before being overtaken by digital displays, the ticking of the clock meant something. The steady sound was comforting, though on occasion, it disrupted my sleep. But now, I’m awakened by heavy fog rolling in, the enormity of loss crushing everything in its path.

“I want it over now!” My arms are crossed, but my demand is tempered by a tiny sliver of shame.

“Oh good grief,” the Coauthor smiles. “It was over before you started.”

*******

When I speak to the Viral Collective about geraniums and longevity and the bad choices I made last fall, there’s nothing but forgiveness in the air. “We see how hard it is,” they say, stroking my shoulder. Patting my head.

I want none of it. My intentions were pure. I deserve another chance.

“You will not be found innocent,” the Collective says. “The geraniums froze.”

*******

The Artificial Mothers are make-believe virgins, whoring around in contradictory clothes. They pretend to love us as they scatter offerings like stars or candy at parades. But beware: It is the hatching of a million snakes.

Even the wisest mavens end up sidelined, old locomotives cleverly switched to dead-end tracks. Sometimes, when a thug thinks no one is looking, he shoves the Viral Collective off the cliff, and they tumble into The Fiery Lake below. Their wild and joyous gestures suggest the water is fine.

And at least for now, we’re safe. The air is thick with peppermint.

********
















Don’t forget to order the latest godblog book, print on demand on Amazon:










I trust you can find the link. The cyber giants do not play nicely with each other.


			




			
				


	


					
Awakened by a Petulant God
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













“Hey, are you aware that we cut our teeth on climate change and invented belly fat as a little joke?” A Pouty Apparition startled me awake. I moaned. Petulant Voices chimed in, nodding. “We deserve a good laugh now and then, don’t we?”





I rolled out of bed and groped my way to the kitchen, fighting off the vertigo of a long life. People need sustenance before engaging in any meaningful way with a Peevish Universe.





Out the window, the ice-edged river flowed by while the coffee brewed. Petulant Voices started singing the national anthem. Dawn reversed itself as night rolled back in, and bombs bursting in air gave just enough light to locate the flag. A fierce Wind ripped it down and draped Old Glory across the backs of shivering calves being rounded up for slaughter. The Voices kept singing, “O’er the land of the free…”.





“Could you bring it down a notch?” I pleaded. This was not the kind of God any sane person would willingly deal with, but was there a choice?





“Of course and of course,” they declared. “There’s always a choice.”





An abrupt, unnerving calm settled as the Wind died down and the Voices faded into throngs of those silenced by extinction.





But it wasn’t over. “Don’t mind us,” they muttered. “We’ll just perch on this rock while you feed your face.”





I did not look up.





“We’ll just take a dip in the swimming hole while you guzzle beer.”





I rolled my eyes.





The Voices sighed in an elaborate show of patience. “We’ll just listen to a podcast while you get dressed.”





I shrugged, trying to keep my distance and hold myself together.





The Voices changed tactics and belted out a new song. A holiday favorite. “Do you hear what I hear?”





That did it. I gave up the pretense of sufficiency, looked into the dark eyes of death and bad choices, and said, “No. I do not hear what you hear. I do not see what you see. I do not know what you know. Would you mind leaving me alone now?”





“Not at all.” The Voices became the murmur of beating wings over untouched land, and finally, I could hear myself think.





“Come, let us reason together,” I said to what was left of myself.





“Oh, this ought to be good,” the Voices snickered. “Mind if we listen in?”







			




			
				


	


					
Holding Patterns
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		









Greetings. It is Sunday morning, and just like 484 other Sundays, my Coauthor and I will be flinging a few words your way. Why? I don’t know. For my part, I just hope they land somewhere and offer someone food for thought, a surprised chuckle, a gentle cry, or balm for the soul.

My Coauthor, the one I speak freely for and about, is a persistent, nonexistent son of a bitch that befriended me when I wasn’t looking. We sit around a lot. We aim for 300 words every Monday, but we allow fewer if a poem is trying to appear. Then we edit all week. We often sob along the way. Then we post.
 
Recently, we tackled the publishing process again, yanking hundreds of these missives into a certain physicality. Why? I don’t know. The years and the losses pile up, no matter what. Sometimes, I get crazy sad. Murderously angry. I reek of despair. I break things. I chase the Coauthor around with a hammer, a paintbrush, a poem, shards of a broken mirror, or handfuls of angular sticks. We finally collapse into the absurdity. There is no escape. We are stuck with each other. The glue we currently favor is E6000. But there are options. 

This is Solstice. This is the balancing point. I will wear black with yellow boots. I will post these words to myself, to you, to a Universe so full and majestic I consider surrendering.
 
The Coauthor says, “No, you don’t. And that’s why I love you.” And I say “Bosh.” 

Here's this week's group of words. Sent along with as much love as I can muster right now.

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




     
     Holding Patterns

Silence and Emptiness 
are so potent 
they don’t often exist.

To realize your full potential
you must interact
in a friendly manner
with these nothings
because like wild dogs 
they sense fear.

If you turn your back
they will attack 
and you will stumble
over the edge.

When you gaze into the low unknown,
square your shoulders
lift your eyes
and raise your arms
in surrender.

When the Wind dies, 
you will wonder 
if there is anything left

but the Deep Blue understands.
It says Be still.
I will hold you.

              II                                                                                     
It’s easy to hate.

The seductive lies
of ignorance and fear
have led to many
crucifixions.
 
Far less easy to offer 
one bruised cheek
two warm hands
or a place to rest.

         III

Find each other
while you can
and do not wait
to speak of love.
 

























You can find a collection of these blogs in my book: 
Who’s to say what starlight might do to the skin ? on Amazon for $13.99
Here’s the ridiculously long link:

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=rita+sommers+flanagan&adgrpid=183606418742&hvadid=779553774453&hvdev=c&hvexpln=0&hvlocphy=9021095&hvnetw=g&hvocijid=7160213628306274734–&hvqmt=b&hvrand=7160213628306274734&hvtargid=kwd-516018497007&hydadcr=22561_13531225_8196&mcid=a81597a2fe913977ba9295c79d067477&tag=googhydr-20&ref=pd_sl_7mmk43sahz_b


			




			
				


	


					
Dysfunction at the Pearly Gates
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments		

			


	

		













Due to recent excessive flooding, the gates of heaven have rusted open. Many are desperately trying to push them shut, but those damn gates won’t budge. I’ve heard that the administration plans to soak them in petroleum until the hinges loosen up and the wrong sort can be excluded again.





But for now, carcasses are rolling in unjudged and unimpeded except for the extra stars being glued to the crowns of those who were murdered, tortured, raped, or starved to death. These bodies often come in so emaciated or mutilated that they can’t be identified. Luckily, the Coauthor has published at least one story with every last one of them. These improbable tales of love, loss, and triumph provide guidance for the transformation of their bones. Even the shortest of stories, even the lowliest of lives.





The corpses of the blithely blessed, the perpetrators, monsters, and the enormously greedy are arriving too, but they’re receiving only standard allocations of stars. And no wings. Rumor has it that they’re trying to produce their own private stars and are threatening steep tariffs on feathers and halos.





“Don’t worry,” the Coauthor tells me. “Soon enough, it won’t matter. They’re making fake stars from rare earth elements and unfortunately, your planet is already on life support from all that extraction. All those wars. It won’t be long now.”





“Oh, God!” I exclaim. “Can’t you chip through the rust and slam those gates shut?”





My Coauthor looks at me with sad eyes. “Et tu, Brute?”





“What do you mean?” I demand, but I know exactly what she means, and I hate it. Liars and con men are trashing this beautiful earth. I don’t want justice, I want revenge. People I love have been treated unfairly. I don’t want mercy. I want revenge.





Revenge grows aggressively in the dark waters of the wounded, indignant heart. If you hurt me, I’ll hurt you. If you survive, you’ll hurt me worse, and so it goes, even unto death. One of us will go to hell. And then the other. It’s possible to break the cycle, but forgiveness is something most of us find difficult if not intolerable.





“Ah, maybe leave those gates open,” I mumble. “Afterall, we’re only human.”  





The Coauthor turns her palms up in a gesture of helplessness.





“So true,” she says. “But in this iteration, you’re all I’ve got. And that just kills me. Any chance you could put on your Big Girl pants?”





“I don’t remember how.” 





The Coauthor looks at me skeptically. “One leg at a time,” she says. “And hold someone’s hand if you need to. Balance is important.”


			




			
				


	


					
Do-over Day
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments		

			


	

		













                     Do-over Day
       (for my exhausted compatriots)

Things happen when the truth gets too close to the surface.
People grow more defensive. For instance, last night 
the neighbors lit so many candles 
against the coming storm
that their house burned 
to the ground.

Do-over day.

Some of the children have chosen to fly too close 
to the sun, and their tender wings are undone, 
dripping wax down their arms, but maybe
it’s worth it for that kind of light,
that kind of spectacle,
that kind of end.

Do-over day.

Behold! That which is old has birthed something new,
And that which was new has now grown old.
If you hold love too close to your heart
it will explode from all that pressure.
Let it go. It will grow or perish
all on its own.

Do-over day.

You know this by the smell of ground coffee
and offerings burnt to perfection, and syrup
sweet and sticky, the pitcher too close 
to the edge. If it falls, it will shatter, 
and you will be tempted to say
I told you so.

Do-over day.

This is the time to go back to bed, cover your head,
and resolve to kick the bejesus out of anyone
who tries to get too close while you regroup
in the primordial soup where you began.
You speak softly to your bent reflection
but she’s asleep.

Let her rest.


			




			
				


	


					
IQ Test
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment		

			


	

		








If children ask for bread, do you give them a stone?





Meditation isn’t easy. Most mornings, I prefer monkey mind. Trying to control the breath makes me claustrophobic. Panic arises, and the Coauthor has to dance into the void and tickle my brain to save me from sinking into useless rants and bitter condemnations.





“How about we do an IQ test to help you get centered?” she suggests in a beguiling voice. “We’ll pretend there are no wrong answers.”





“Or we could pretend there are no right answers,” I snipe back.





“You’ve clearly lost the beat,” she says, and shoves me into an ancient classroom rapidly filling with Ethereal Beings.





 “Please find a seat,” she commands, tapping a baton on her podium. “I’ll read the questions. You may answer telepathically if you’d like.”





She begins.





    

  • If you lower yourself into a hot tub filled with bliss, and luxuriate until you completely dissolve, will the soup of your soul be a positive addition to the mix?
    • 






(Unlikely)





    

  • Do you gaze at youth and beauty with envy, spite, or joy? If the nubile youngsters gaze back, do you nod modestly or preen as if you’re still attractive?
    • 






(None of the above)





    

  • Would you rather build a fire, harvest carrots, or watch someone get murdered or raped on TV, assuming justice is eventually served?
    • 






(Carrots)





    

  • Why would someone invent a color that others can’t even see?
    • 






(To hide)





(Does anyone love you? Do you love anyone, and if so, what exactly does that mean?)





(Pass)





    

  • When the familiar collapses, will you run amok, join the choir, or sidle uphill to watch?
    • 






(Run amok)





    

  • Do you prefer approval or adventure? Acrimony or accolades? Whiskey or vodka? Breastmilk or beer?
    • 






(Beer)





    

  • Which moral platitudes cause you to choke on your whole wheat pasta?
    • 






(Pretty much all of them)





    

  • How often do you wash your hair or clean the wax from your misshapen ears?
    • 






(None of your business)





(If anyone does love you, or if you do love anyone, have you prepared for the next holocaust? Do you bake the occasional gluten-free pie?)





“Enough!” the Ethereal Beings yell in mock protest. “There’s real work to do.”





The Coauthor winks. “And what might that be?”





“Feed the hungry, silly.” They march out, laughing and singing, arms laden with bread. I remain seated in the last row, deep within the bowels of discordant realities, soaking in the terrifying harmonies of simple truths. My heart is pounding. I remind myself to breathe with my diaphragm. 





The Coauthor motions me forward, takes my pulse, and hands me a drum. “Here you go, Maestro. Go find a parade.”