Tag: Grace

Not a Poem

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments


“As soon as he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, made clay of the spittle,
and anointed the eyes of the blind with the clay,”

As happens some mornings, words take control; familiar, whimsical, entitled. Perhaps in another life, I was a rapper, an erstwhile prophet flinging ribbons of rhymes, taunting derelict deities with their shady designs. This is an appealing possibility. I consult with the Coauthor:

“Hey, is there any chance I was ever…”
“No.”
“But sometimes, I see a fragment of you in the swirl…”
“You cannot contain me in words. I’m not a Poem.”
“But you are a fragment.”
“Or a figment, a pigment, a glimmer of hope.”
“See? You can’t help yourself, can you?”

My Coauthor blushes, caught in the act of being.
We laugh at this gaffe. And we write.

Spit on the Ground

If you’re being kidnapped or murdered
you should spit on the ground
to help the police know who they’ve found
if they find you.

And with the time you have left,
let your DNA shine. Leave something sublime behind.
Joy, rich soil, saliva, or stone.

What is the blink of an eye if you’re blind?
Let colors erupt in your mind.
Mud and Muse.
Ocean and bruise. Pay your dues.
Be here or be gone.

If you want to be found, spit on the ground.

It may all come down to that spit on the ground,
the migration of nouns to verbs, wingless birds, hollow bones.

All that’s unknown in our tender years
hides in our genes, unseen.
waiting for subtle expression
or release from repression.
Ready to blast into being.

If They knock and come in, look around.
The thinnest of lines grow wider with time,
and you’ll know the true cost of that spit on the ground.
It’s the only way anyone is ever found.

“But do you?” the Coauthor asks quietly.
“Do I what?”
“Know the true cost of that spit on the ground?”
“No. I do not,” I admit with some shame.
“That’s what I thought. I’m not a Poem, but I do know your name.”

I rally and grin. “You know that’s not true, but what’s there to do?”
The Coauthor sighs. “Here’s my advice. Take time to be nice. The larger the act, the higher the price. Sometimes it will even cost you your life.

“Um, I don’t like the sound of that pitch,” I said.
The Coauthor nods. “Sorry my dear, but as good poets know, editing’s a bitch.”

Ah yes. The Edit.
And the Eternal Question: Who gets the credit?
Your head adorned, or your head on a platter.
In the end, I promise, these things will not matter.

Four and Twenty Blackbirds

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Long ago, Charles Dickens wisely noted, these are the best of times, and these are the worst of times. At present, the balance seems to be drifting toward the worst. Harsh judgments and general nastiness are flying every which way. Some are chronically disappointed in their own mistakes and shortcomings, while others loudly denounce the stupidities and failures of our neighbors.

And some, like me, swing both ways, genetically predisposed to identifying the egregious and erroneous both inside and out. The illusory algorithms don’t help. It’s difficult to live within myself and torturous to watch the news or go to town.

That’s why I reluctantly give thanks and praise to the giddiest, most irreverent, whimsical, Mutha of a Coauthor ever. She’s so far over the top there’s no defining or containing her. This is a horrible blessing.

Just yesterday, she livened my horizon dancing naked, ponderous brown breasts swaying like unhinged planets. Holding a rainbow flag and an assault rifle above her head, the Howling Creator finished her pirouettes, and the known universe bowed in prayer. I stood by, watchful.

She bent a witchy finger and beckoned me to come hither, but I ran for yon. The potential for defiant joy was palpable, but it’s safer to notice what’s wrong.

“Oh, my dear foolishness,” my Coauthor cackled from the back of a camouflaged pick-up. She shot off rounds with her heavenly auxiliary and scattered red and blue aster seeds in the wind.

“Asters are perennials,” I yelled from a safe distance. “And perennials often become weeds.”

She shrugged. “You need to focus on what’s good, If joy floats by, soak it up, gulp it down. Expand your innards!” She demonstrated with a thunderous belch and pounded her chest.

Despite myself, I burst out laughing.

“That’s it!” she shouted. “Now let’s expand the pie!”

She brandished a pie and sliced it open, freeing four and twenty blackbirds. Red-winged blackbirds, jubilant in flight. “You’re the niftiest little thing I’ve taunted all day!” she declared, delighted and crazed.

Our times are dark with fear. The blind are leading the blinded; the rich, filthy rich, the poor, desperately poor. Yet Creation gambols on, fighting the good fight, leaving no one behind.

We toil in the garden, be it Eden or hell, while she leaps about shouting, “All will be well.”

“Stop with the outlandish assertions,” I told her dryly. “No one believes you anyway.”

She feigned indignation, but I didn’t back down. She never tells the whole truth. She’s Queen of Poetic License, a victim of malicious misinterpretation.

She gave me a look. “I could just take my resilience elsewhere, you know.”

“I know,” I admitted. “Please don’t.”

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

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
		
				

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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.









			




			
				


	


					
Mr. Shiny Buttons
		
				

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At a recent retreat, I was doing some tracking along the fenceline of my awareness when a starling flew from my right eye. Her captivity may have been my fault, but I also take credit for the energy and gracefulness of her escape. I bid her farewell, envious of her sleek black directionality. If only I could fly.





I often provide loosely defined shelter for such beings but it’s hard to tell if they are benevolent, benign, or malignant.  Do they know this about themselves or are they too hungry to think? A voracious appetite is difficult to manage.





We’re all malicious on occasion, so we snipe at each other, hoping that grousing and prickliness will alleviate our guilt. Some of us are unbroken geodes, but mostly, we’re ordinary stones rolling along, disappointed in what we’ve not become.





“On the other hand,” Mr. Shiny Buttons appears, ready to argue. “There are gongs, massages, herbal tea, and fluffy robes. So many ways to be pampered and deceived. Take heart, you molting pigeon. Take mine, in fact.”





“Your heart?”





“You bet. I have so many. Most are bleeding, but never you mind. Pick one and I’ll patch it up. It’ll be good as new.”





“I can’t”





“You can.”





Mr. Shiny Buttons sweetens his offer. “If properly cared for, repaired hearts will see you past senility.”





“OH!” I gasp as fantasy crashes into reality. “Oh, I know you.”





Mr. Shiny Buttons takes my face in his hands and gazes into my eyes. My Coauthor dashes in and flashes warning hand signals. I dim the light behind my retinas and reflect back nothing. Mr. Shiny Buttons flies into a rage. The scent of artificial lavender issues from his flaring nostrils. I faint.





My Coauthor breaks my fall and slaps me back to consciousness. “Don’t mind old Shiny Buttons. He’s a lonely charlatan. A wimp in royal spandex. He’s made millions peddling longevity. It’s a handy temptation.”





“I hate editing,” I say.





“Belligerence becomes you,” my Coauthor laughs. “But you’re going bald anyway.”





When a Cholla cactus dies, the soft tissue decays, and the lingering bones are riddled with holes. I thought I was done collecting twisted sticks, but as I slipped free from the grip of the labyrinth, I grabbed an intriguing specimen and hurried to the car.  





The skeletal remains are now hidden behind the driver’s seat and I’m planning to leave before anyone discovers what I’ve done.







			




			
				


	


					
Smoke
		
				

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With smoke in our mouths, we eat breakfast in silence. Bloodshot eyes meet bloodshot eyes, we shake the limp hand of an uncertain future, and wonder how to begin this day. There’s no choice. We have to invite Forever along for the ride, but the carriage is crowded with fools.





“Oh you cheery old thing,” Forever teases. “No one likes crotchety in the morning.”





I feign deafness. In the best of times, I’m not a morning person, and these are not the best of times. The eerie glow is rolling nearer and nearer.





The Future throws her head back and starts singing. “Hey, Jude, don’t be afraid. Take a sad song and make it better.”





“Is this necessary?” I moan.





“Trust me,” she nods. “Let it out and let it in. The movement you need is on your shoulder.”





Maybe she’s right. Like Atlas, I shrug.





She laughs. “That’s it, baby. Nice.”





But you can’t shrug this shit away. The litter along the tracks. The loss of common ground. Is there an appropriate response to the mindless squandering of magnificence?





Love could conquer all, but love doesn’t want to. The leitmotif of love is tired of being used for revenge. Stripped thin and braided, love becomes a noose. Embellished and inflated, the golden calf is slaughtered. The rendered lard is a dangerous source of sustenance.





I believe my Coauthor should apologize for these design flaws. This spiral of destruction. But she refuses. “Not sorry, not sorry, not sorry,” she insists.





“You should be,” I mutter. The suffering now, the miseries coming, cities choking on themselves. I don’t want to be complicit, but I know I am.





Suddenly, we’re in New Orleans. A city built on denial and dikes, levees and levity. “Let me help you with that clunky baggage,” the Bellboy offers. He grabs the straps of my black mood and dances up the stairs of the Monteleone. Forever is close behind, still belting out that damn song.





“The minute you let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better. Better. Better. Better.” Forever’s pitch climbs to near hysteria. Arms raised, all creation sways as one. “Na, na, na, na, na-na-na-na. Na-na-na-na. Hey, Jude.”





“Let who into my heart?” I shout. “Or what?”





Three Divine Fire Chiefs pull me aside. “What if we’re the Starters and Swallowers of Fire,” they posit with roguish smiles. “What if we’re the Ride and the Littered Trail?”





I glare, unwilling to be privy to these dialectical mysteries. 





Forever laughs. “Stop griping and glooming, little mortal. Just let it out. And let it in. And thus it will begin. Again.”




















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
		
				

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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.”







			




			
				


	


					
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.


















			




			
				


	


					
To Read A Poem Aloud
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













To read a poem aloud has risks. Here are some safety tips:

•	Clear your throat and mind.
•	Let the syllables control the wheel.
•	Soften your gaze.
•	Do not pretend to understand (but maybe you will).

And now, for a chance to practice. Enunciate. Be brave.

                      Visitations

When God comes by, there’ll be no glare. 
The Mighty Incognito travels light
and hides inside your cravings drinking vodka,
laughing like a fool just out of sight.

When the weather seems to get the upper hand, 
dig into the compost of the past
and listen to the microbes singing love songs.
knowing all that stuff and nonsense doesn’t last.

The clash and clang and riptides are deceptive.
Our young ones watch as melodies decay.
This etude has no ending or beginning, but
underneath the notes, you’ll find the way.

So get thee to the shadows, tiny dancer.
Survival should no longer be thy goal.
Smile while all the moments turn to ashes..
Then faint upon thy couch and rest thy soul.

(Important facts about composting: 1) The mesophilic, or moderate-temperature phase, lasts a day or two; 2) The thermophilic, or high-temperature phase, lasts from a few days to many weeks; and 3) The maturation, or cooling phase, lasts for several months.)

Questions to consider: 

•	Is compost evidence of life after death?
•	Is nonsense sacred? Profane? Nourishing?
•	How often do you check your weather app?
•	Should God make appointments or just stop by?
•	Do you even have a couch? If so, give thanks.


* * * *





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