Tag: Compassion

Let Justice Roll Down Like Waters: A performance piece

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

The poet podcaster professor prophet Pádraig Ó Tuama loves the sheer poetry of poetry. As he reads, his lilting delight pulls you in. You hear the words differently. Give him a listen. And then read the following poem slowly, preferably aloud, using the cues in bold as your guide. You can invite a friend to read with you or embody two voices: One, the Booming Voice of the Universe, the other, a smooth Irish brogue. You can do this.

                     A SONG ABOUT JUSTICE AND FEAR AS THE HOLIDAYS DRAW NEAR

(Irish brogue, with resolve)
       The halls are decked in the carol, but
       it’s getting harder to don gay apparel 
       as I gaze down the barrel of 12-gauge defenses, 
       barbed-wire fences, the assault on our senses. 
       Fa la la la la. Don I must
       All this suffering is clearly unjust.

(Booming Voice, magnanimous)
       Gay apparel? Borrow Mine. Gay apparel so fine you won’t know
       who you are. You’ll burn like a star. An anonymous star.

(Irish brogue, prattling, aggrieved)
       Do I drop to my knees? Enter my plea? 
       Guilty as charged? Am I selfish and cold, 
       mean as a snake? 
       Is this all a mistake? 
       Who will save me when I need a hand? 

(Booming Voice, challenging)
       Let justice roll down like waters. Take a stand, take the mic, 
       or crawl under your bed where the living and dead all wait.

(Irish brogue, whining)
       So many terrors and phony excuses 
       for the continued abuses 
       of those starving, parched, or weak. 
       We eat of the bodies
       indicted or shot. How do we find
       a way forward or out? 
       There’s no escape route.

(Booming Voice, impatient)
       Bullshit and nonsense. I paved it Myself. The signage
       is clear. Get your rear in gear and be kind. No more fear.

(Irish brogue, freaking out)
       But…but...the fakers and takers, 
       the willfully blind and cruel, 
       the ignorant fools?  Be brave? Be kind? 
       This blows my mind.
       Instead, let us play, live for the day. 
       for tomorrow we all may die.

(Booming Voice, placating)
       The days or the hours or years. All mirrors. Look deep in my eyes
       and you’ll realize nothing is actually yours.  

(Irish brogue, confessing)
       The dreck on my hands is distorting my plans
       etched in frost that will melt by midday.
       The Beautiful Feet of those with good news
       are bruised and distended but fiercely defended
       by children at play in the street.

(Booming Voice, empathic)
       Pure heaven or hell. It’s hard to tell. 
       Face into the swell of the crowd and give thanks.
 
(Irish brogue, a little giddy)
       The Hands on our faces are greenly and lilac,
       thistles in bloom making room for the bees,
       pinching our cheeks to bring out the pink
       so we're not led to our doom that fast.
       The last shall be first, the first shall be last.

(Booming Voice, laughing)
       The demons are dancing, reindeer prancing, angels raving,
       Fa la la la la, it’s a big fucking mess, but I believe it’s worth saving.


THIS COULD BE CONSIDERED THE END, but below is a version for those who wish to read this missive in their own goddamned voice without being bossed around by cues.
 


                     A SONG ABOUT JUSTICE AND FEAR AS THE HOLIDAYS DRAW NEAR 

The halls are decked in the carol, but
it’s getting harder to don gay apparel 
as I gaze down the barrel of 12-gauge defenses, 
barbed-wire fences, the assault on our senses. 
Fa la la la la. Don I must
All this suffering is clearly unjust.

Gay apparel? Borrow Mine. Gay apparel so fine you won’t know
who you are. You’ll burn like a star. An anonymous star.

Do I drop to my knees? Enter my plea? 
Guilty as charged? Am I selfish and cold, 
mean as a snake? 
Is this all a mistake? 
Who will save me when I need a hand? 

Let justice roll down like waters. Take a stand, take the mic, 
or crawl under your bed where the living and dead all wait.

So many terrors and phony excuses 
for the continued abuses 
of those parched, hungry, or weak. 
We eat of the bodies
indicted or shot. How do we find
a way forward or out?
There’s no escape route.

Bullshit and nonsense. I paved it Myself. The signage
is clear. Get your rear in gear and be kind. No more fear.

But…but…the fakers and takers, 
the willfully blind and cruel, 
the ignorant fools?  Be brave? Be kind? 
This blows my mind.
Instead, let us play, live for the day. 
for tomorrow we all may die.

The days or the hours or years. All mirrors. Look deep in my eyes
and you’ll realize nothing is actually yours.  

The dreck on my hands is distorting my plans
etched in frost that will melt by midday.
The Beautiful Feet of those with good news
are bruised and distended but fiercely defended
by children at play in the street.

Pure heaven or hell. It’s hard to tell. 
Face into the swell of the crowd and give thanks.
 
The Hands on our faces are greenly and lilac,
thistles in bloom making room for the bees,
pinching our cheeks to bring out the pink
so we're not led to our doom that fast.
The last shall be first, the first shall be last.

The demons are dancing, reindeer prancing, angels raving,
Fa la la la la, it’s a big fucking mess, but I believe it’s worth saving.

                     NOT THE END. EVER.

Set Your Intention By Yourself–Or Not

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

People rarely want others to pull their bootstraps up for them. Toddlers yell, “Me do it!” and those who should no longer climb ladders climb anyway. We exert a lot of energy hiding our holey underwear and shameful weaknesses, but in reality, independence is an illusion. Humans need each other, but we’re loathe to admit it.

“Did you intend for us to evolve in this paradoxical way?” I ask the Evolutionary Forces of the Universe.

“Not exactly,” they admit. “We don’t set intentions, but we like watching. You’re a fascinating species, and we’re on your side.”

So who’s to blame? In my circles, bearing the brunt of the blame is a virtuous act, the opposite of self-preservation. God and slightly lesser beings often step in, but I’m not sure it solves anything. Nothing happens for a reason except for the creatively cobbled explanations we use to calm our nerves.

“Are you willing to be the reason?” I ask the Imputed Reason for Everything.

Gale-force laughter greets another hurricane season. Suffering ensues.

Death comes to all, but life begets itself. Throngs of people scroll by, dressed to the nines, filling their pockets with shiny objects, too distracted to partake of the fruit of the Moment–the tasty tidbits hanging ripe on the Tree.

“Are you as rich and omnipresent as they say?” I ask The Moment.

“Are you as dense as it seems?” The Moment chuckles. “Here, take a bite.”

I bite. The Moment declares itself to be good. And it is.

“Could we just stay here?” I ask, but The Moment sours as I cling.

Soft voice. Big Stick. Warm heart. Cold feet. The trill of the warbler, the croak of the crow. The penetrating glance of a stranger. A penny for your thoughts. The terror of being utterly alone. The lamb, lost. Found. Lost again.

Try as you might, you cannot wrest control of any situation for long.

Finally, exhausted, you stare out the window, awaiting the news. You suspect what’s coming won’t be to your liking, but you stand there anyway, hoping.

“Some days are easier than others,” my Coauthor whispers.

“I know,” I nod. “But the overall trajectory doesn’t bode well.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” the Muses sigh. “Ain’t that the god-awful truth?”

The secret to life hangs in the balance. The reset button is fickle; forgiveness is the wiser choice. You can borrow a ladder and climb to the moon. Start your engines and race to the sea. Climb on your high horse and ride into town. Or you can find your center, stretch, and breathe. There is no such thing as forever. Just breathe.

….. ….. ….. ….. ….. …..

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO online and for a mere $13.99, you can torment your soul every day. Also, I am now posting on Substack, and may drift there as my primary place to post.

Drunk on Old Wine

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

My Coauthor lurks in words like suffering, immigrating, dispossessing, drowning, shooting, refuging, sacrifice, and starvation. I’m trying to lure her toward bacon, bagel, comfortable shoes, light rain. She plugs and unplugs her ears, mocking me.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, hurt and indignant. “You know I can’t do those words right now.”  I do a double-take and add, “Wait! Are you drunk?”

“You bet I am,” she slurs. “This old wine is good medicine.”

“You, of all entities, do not need medicine,” I scold. “Get a grip.”

“No! You get a grip.” This adolescent comeback tickles me, but I don’t laugh. She looks deranged as she yells, “I’ve invested eons in your species. Look at the mess you’ve made.”

She lunges at me and takes a wild swing. We tumble to the floor, scratching and biting.

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

The aftertaste of wrestling with Meaning is bitter, and the lingering Breath of God reeks of cosmic fermentation. There are so many excuses for this holy bender. So many versions of Alpha and Omega repeatedly betrayed; the Source has been forced to seek shelter in sewers under cities on hills set ablaze to prove an unprovable point.

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

“Mind altering drugs, anyone?” The Hosts weave around the heavens wearing sequin coats of many pockets. “These’ll stoke whatever fires you choose.” The maddening crowd rushes in. The least are being trampled by the surging hordes, but it doesn’t matter because we’re all falling off the edge and breaking.

So many bones protruding, even the birds of prey lose count.

“Cut!” I motion to the Directors. “Too brutal. Gratuitous violence sickens me.”

“Such delicate sensibilities.” They’re taunting me, but I detect a note of approval.

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

“Over here!” the Coauthors beckon with urgency.

They’ve transformed into First Responders bravely going forth with pagers in their neon vests. Flashlights slash darkness into strobes of horror. Sirens shriek from all directions. No one copes well with such tragedy. I’m blinded, deafened, and flattened to two dimensions. I plan my elegy as I crawl toward the words. Will I be found and saved by something true? Will anyone?

 As the cacophony dies down, the Beyond gathers what’s left of me and whispers, “There is a silence so holy it’s worth waiting for.” This seems ominous, but I know it was meant to reduce my death anxieties.

“I like the sound of that!” I’ve rallied enough to tease. “At least the waiting part.” The Coauthors flash a knowing grin. The day opens, and we all step in.

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

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO online and for a mere $13.99, you can torment your soul every day. Also, I am now posting on Substack, and may drift there as my primary place to post.

Yielding

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

When you rev your diesel 4 x 4 and congest Main Street with fumes and fury,
your pathetic bid to dominate and genital insecurities are on full display.

And when you write things like that, you’re displaying…
STOP! I know. But we’re human. We snipe.

You’re human. You give gifts.
We’re human. We give black eyes.

You’re human. You pull weeds.
We’re human. We pull rank.

You’re human. You prepare meals.
We’re human. We prepare for war.

You’re human. You seek the Truth.
We’re human. We seek revenge.

You’re human. You aspire to…
STOP! I can’t take another round. We no longer seem to aspire.

Let’s wait a bit before you look in the mirror this morning.
I wonder what a brush of hope on your cheeks might do.

Why bother? This is the way I look.

The eyebrows could be darker, more expressive.  
And the lips. What do you think about ruby red?

STOP! I’m awake. I know my face. And my fate.

You know neither. Yield the right-of-way. Let them roar by.
Yielding feels like being gutted. I’m not good at sacrifice.

Come sit with me. I’ll braid your wispy hair,
and we can wash the dishes together.

That sounds like a terrible idea.

I’ll rinse. You dry. And thus, our light will have shone where it matters.
We don’t dry our dishes. We let the air do that.

That’s right. We’ll let the air do that.

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

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO online and for a mere $13.99, you can torment your soul every day. Also, I am now posting on Substack, and may drift there as my primary place to post.

The Nearly Frozen Woman

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 





Some years ago, on a dangerously cold morning, an elderly woman knocked on our door and stumbled in. She was nearly frozen to death. Her name was Rose. She’d locked herself out and had been walking the streets to stay alive. We wrapped her in blankets, gave her tea, and called her children.





I didn’t think to offer a warm bath to raise her body temperature, so she shivered violently until her family arrived. She survived, but her frost white image looms when I am chilled to the bone. I could have done more.





My fearful fellow fallibles,
what is it you regret?
Thoughtlessness?
Little lies? Big lies?
Always choosing beige
instead of burgandy?
Inadvertent harm?
Premeditated acts?
Kindness withheld?
Staying past your welcome?
Walking away too soon?

And my Dearly Divines,
do all things turn
back on themselves?
Or are you burdened
by your mistakes?
Miscalculations?
Are you forever
by definition?
Could there be
such a thing
as Perfection?

When I was young, my beautiful feet ran toward the sun, unaware that I would gradually come undone. Rose has long since died, but in my heart, my negligence lives on. Self-recrimination sometimes leads to forgiveness and compassion. Sometimes, not.





“There’s a reason we did not equip you with clairvoyance,” Open Ways declare, smiling.





Self-pity engulfs me. How does anyone ever get it right?





“Suck it up, Buttercup,” Open Ways snickers. “That’s not a good look on you.”





I retreat to a stack of boulders rounded by centuries of tumbling downstream and sit wringing my hands to signal that I’m old and helpless. Sun laughs. Birds laugh. Hollyhock seeds scatter as they laugh. The stones themselves guffaw with such glee that they become utterly unstable. The absurdities of existence are hilarious. 





Hairline cracks appear everywhere, and I am now aware that I will soon be swallowed whole. In the merriment. I absolve myself. I will never be enough.   





The Largenesses and Open Ways are playing poker in the shade. They wave and deal me in. No doubt my face will betray me as I wager away my prospects and fold, but I’m at peace with that. The alternatives are few, and quite unappealing.












			




			
				


	


					
Greeting the Vast Expanse
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













Hello you swollen belly of a god, you laughing Buddha, you runny-nosed child squatting on the riverbank, you glad handed left handed swift handed no handed specter of all things possible. Hello. I’ve been missing you.





Hello yourself, my little wannabe. I like what you’ve done with the place.





You do not.





No, seriously, I do.





This indwelling wrestling match is rigged. My hands are cold. The day is warm. I’ll prepare for what’s coming with short phrases and long exhalations.





 “Look,” I tell the Coauthor. “The blood red curtains are coming down.” With a loud click, the curtain rod falls.





The Coauthor shrugs. “They weren’t that bad.”





“Yeah, well. According to my intel on you, nothing’s that bad. You have terrible taste.”





“Ha!” a Chorus of Wayward Synapses laughs. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”





“You realize I have no mother, right? And no feeling left in my feet. And very little taste for anything but the fleeting pleasures of pigment, wine, and chocolate.”





“Of course I realize that,” the Outerness nods. “And that’s okay.”





“How can that be okay?” I yell, enraged and afraid. I take a swing at the Empty Space and hurt myself a little.





This is life betwixt and between. I’ve eaten all the daily specials I will ever eat, but sale items and outdated produce will tempt me until the end. And occasionally, I’ll give in.





“You think you know me, don’t you?” The sly Voice of the Spinning Universe asks. This question always emerges in the uncut version of my story.





“No! Absolutely not,” I raise my hands in denial and back away. “Why would you say something like that?





“I don’t know. Wishful thinking I suppose.” The Voice admits, dejected.





This breaks what little heart I have left.





“I’m sorry,” I say. “Do you want me to pretend?”





“Yes, please.” The Voice of the Universe is soft. Wistful. “I’ll take anything that resembles connection.”





The undocumented, demented, dispossessed, the inmates, addicts, and the trodden down are all huddled on the floor of that lonesome valley. They stink to High Heaven. High Heaven throws the doors and windows open.





The table is set, the wine is poured, and a cool breeze sweetens the air. The wise among the broken strip to the bone and take their seats. Frivolity ensues.





I’ve not yet attained the wisdom of complete destitution, the defenseless salvation of Nothing, but the Coauthor allows me to play at the gates. 





For this, I give thanks.










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





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














			




			
				


	


					
Transitions: One Version of Psalm 139
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments		

			


	

		








Photo Credit: The Amazing Scott Wolff






Midnight shook me awake with labor pains
from the olden days, and I was lost.
With a trail as obscure as this one,
who can be sure anything is worth the cost?

If we fail to embrace the steady contractions 
of the hurtling world, if we call for an end 

          to the pain,

               to the pain

                     to the pain

if we give up and don’t push, little will remain.

Some tribes strip you bare and leave you 
writhing in your unbelief, 
leave you to suffer the eternal starting over.
But mine does not. They show up.

If this doesn’t sway you toward love, nothing will.

When greeting and grieving become one, 
the dark night of delivery gives way
to the surprise of placenta-streaked sky
and a trace of rain. 

May our reach 

               always

                    always

                         always 

exceed the grasp of any given day.

And may the wings of the morning hold steady
under the weight of our demands
until we find the hope that lies hidden 
beyond words and the terrors of the night.

Crumbs of manna are all we’ve ever had 
but if we’re willing to share with the birds, 
the scattering will be enough to guide us
to the place where we began. 


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






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









			




			
				


	


					
Systems Charge
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment		

			


	

		













Many thanks to the bison I ate last night. I hope it had a good life and a decent death. I needed the protein. Or at least I thought I did.





The killings I am party to usually have a rationale: I killed that rooster in self-defense. The bison and the housefly, the rooster and the rattlesnake, these I can explain.





As I reset the mousetrap near the firewood on our porch, the Source of Life appears clad in a wife-beater T-shirt, spewing putrid breath.





“Catch another one?” He picks his teeth with a splinter and leers at me.





The odors and images of decomposition rise in waves and begin to permeate everything I love. I rush to close the doors and windows, draw the shades, and mist the air with peppermint. The Source of Life orbits our shared reality and seeps through hairline cracks in a haze of moldy blue. She’s happy.





“I could use some help,” I tell It. Her. Him. They. And I include myself in case there’s some part of me unaware of the long line of lorries filled with insufferable demands and questionable aspirations stalled along the congested routes of my timeline.





“What’s up?” The Source of Life often exudes a certain nonchalance. Like a shill mining for clicks. Disarming on the surface. Deadly underneath.





“Um, well. I have too many shoes,” I stammer. “But none of them are quite right. And I’m not sure if I like sticks anymore. And I can’t seem to keep my fingernails clean or properly shaped.” (I come from a long line of proud fingernail tenders, so this failure is especially humiliating.)





“Diving deep, I see,” The Source of Life chuckles. “Got anything else?”





“I don’t even understand the Systems Charge on our power bill,” I wail in frustration.





The Source says nothing.





“You want a deeper dive?” I continue. “Fine.”





So many failings come to mind.. “How about we tackle pride, anger, envy, greed, and revenge?” I snap. Then add, “Or fear.” I look for an exit.





“And there we go.” The Source has morphed into a formidable Hawaiian woman. She blocks my retreat. The banquet table is set with fine wine, strawberries, grapes, apples, cheese, Portuguese sweet bread, and an array of manicure accoutrements, including a basin of scented holy water for the soaking and softening of cuticle and callous.





“Aloha,” I mutter, glancing sideways.





The mercy in her eyes turns my bravado to putty; I’m stricken and ashamed. My body revealed. My hands given over.





“There we go, beloved,” she repeats as she guides my aching fingers into the iridescent liquid. “There we go.”







			




			
				


	


					
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. 


*******







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



















			




			
				


	


					
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