Tag: Grace

To Linger

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Decades ago, the Headmaster of Magdalen College stood and told the guests to rise and bid farewell to the experience of High Table. “Do not linger,” he adjured. Though we may have been inclined to hold on to the experience a little longer, we obeyed. The Brits have a way about them.

“Yes, they do,” God snickered as if we shared an inside joke. “Stiff upper lip, you know. They still haven’t learned to linger very well, let alone dawdle or tarry.”

I gave God a puzzled look. “Don’t those words mean the same thing?”

Professor God stepped to the podium and cleared her throat. “To linger is to revel in the twinkling glory of gowns and frippery. To linger is to dig into your purse, pull out hidden cash, and spend it on the moment or a stray notion, untallied time on a beach watching seagulls or the setting sun. Lovers linger.”

She gazed beyond me. Then continued.

“To dawdle has a touch of defiance. Sometimes, the dilly-dally is designed to dismay those holding the door. Dawdling is the other side of dread or the empty stare of a mind that’s taken flight. Avoiders dawdle.”

I could relate to dawdling. I do it frequently. God chuckled and shuffled her notes.

“Now, to tarry is another way of tinkering with time. To tarry is to tithe from your cache of tightly wrapped and labeled hours—the ones you use to prove your worth. Tarrying is a calculated intention, a contribution to a promise you believe is true. The hopeful tarry.”

“No,” I said. “Tarrying is torture.”

“Ooooh?” God tipped her head in that maddening, knowing way she has.

My consciousness began to fracture as I tried to explain.

“If you tarry in the garden, the Garden might ask, ‘Darling, why are you here?’ and you might acknowledge your fear. The lifted glass is emptied. The tables are being cleared. The holy ghosts have shed their robes and are digging up the Commons.”

The trance deepened. The Hive Mind of the Mystical dragged me further into the fog. Hungry soil seethed beneath my feet. The contours of connection undulated like waves in a primordial sea.

“I do not know where I begin or end,” I managed to whisper.

“Nor does anyone,” the Garden said. “Tarry with me. I’m lonely.”

I shook my head and the sun broke through. My shadow and I ran for shade. “Sorry,” I yelled over my shoulder. “But we’ll have other times.”

“That we will,” the Garden smiled wistfully. “That we will.”

*******

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To Those Who Leave For Hawaii

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

It is the nature of beets and blueberries to leave behind
indelible evidence of their intensity.
Think of this as an endowment of indigo.

It is the nature of beasts and brutish beings to leave behind
broken bones and babies. Don’t think of this at all.

If people tell you to avoid wearing yellow,
remind them of dandelions, lemons, and the brilliant sun.
Wear whatever you want.

It is the nature of evil to imprison the fallen 
so all can be hidden and forgotten. Remember what you can.

When you realize the harsh climate is too much to bear
and you can’t stand the lay of the land even in April,
cut yourself free and leave for the islands.

When you arrive, stay grounded long enough
to find a source of sustenance, and then flare and fade

like the green flash of refracted light
that divides young from old. Day from night.
Think of this as permission to care for your skin.

Where to begin? You’ve come to an end 
in most of the ways that matter. 

Even before you flew, somehow, you knew 
the aloha of the islands would welcome you home
regardless of your failed intentions.

Regardless of what you planted or sowed.
Regardless of yellow or indigo.

Regardless.



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

Epilogue: Where do poems come from? Monday night, my dear friend Joyce died gently. Sometime Tuesday morning, her essence floated by to sing her goofy good-bye song. Then I think she may have arranged my next adventure—the reclamation of a trailer abandoned by a fugitive. It had that mystical aura. I pulled it home and opened the door. The interior was bursting with dashed hopes and eerie reflections of my various selves. The sadness settled as I washed blankets, sorted clothes, and pried a petrified waffle from the waffle iron stashed in the microwave. I yanked up the carpet beneath my feet. The rebuilding has begun. When it’s finished, it will shelter generations of newly hatched chicks. That was not the original plan but often, clinging to the original plan will get you nowhere.

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

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

Assisted Living

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Painting by Shelby Baldridge

We’re so smart we’ve built machines that are busily making us stupid, I mutter this to myself, but I know I’m being overheard. I am seated with ChatGPT, Claude, Gemini and others at a roundtable discussion hosted by God.

These underlying algorithms grin at each other. The room is cluttered with lies and illusions. They’ve stuffed their mouths full of donuts and are sipping bourbon, apparently teaching themselve to more closely resemble the good old boys.

There’s a chance I don’t belong here.

After attaining a certain level of virtual inebriation, the embodied figments leer at me. They request that I do a pole dance for them. Clearly, their programming has a few glitches. I’m already featherless and chilled to the bone.

These are frightening times.

“You should be grateful,” Copilot sneers. “Not that many young bucks want to see you naked. You’ve let yourself go. You have no enhancements.”

God has scooted his chair back from the table and is studiously examining his swollen knuckles. I turn my age-distorted face to him. He looks away. He’s got nothing.

The abominations arrive uninvited. Claude jumps up to get folding chairs, ChatGPT pours more drinks, and the abominations join the absurdities with an air of superiority.

“Our firepower is second to none,” they announce, glancing at God, perhaps anticipating a challenge or rebuke. But God has fallen asleep. The silence is tempered by the low moan of the mourning dove and the gentle snoring of an exhausted Creator.

Emboldened, they shoot off a few rounds from the back of their truck, grab seven nubile children, and speed away, leaving me gasping from the depths of my comfortable couch.

Innocence is hemorrhaging. I grab the remote and change to the Disney Channel. God is the star of a popular comedy series. I fall on the floor, laughing. Relieved.

An angry voice yanks me back to my unsaved document. “What in the hell are you writing?” it hisses.

“I’m never sure,” I admit. This is my ongoing perplexity. “A parable, maybe? Prose poem? Prayer?”

“Well, it needs work.”

I am ashamed.

Gemini offers to edit, and Grammarly suggests alternative words. Copilot scrolls through the draft. “You should just start over!” it proclaims. They all nod.

“Start over?” These clowns are hysterical. “Oh, I’d love to start over, you fools. Wouldn’t everyone?” Then I burst into tears.

God awakens, pulls a hanky from his pocket, and steers me toward the exit. “If you add coins, the carousel will keep turning,” he says. “But is that really what you want?”

“I don’t think so,” I admit. “But it’s hard to be sure.”

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

Seven Versions of the Same Old Thing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

I


“You again?” The eyebrows of the Infinite Sky are knit above me. I am small. Of little consequence. 
Another chicken has disappeared, but there are more where she came from.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Me again. I’m thirsty.” 
There are record highs and no rain. The heat has withered the emerging greens, 
and my succulent ideas are shriveling. 
These are dangerous times.

II

The tall walls I’ve built accuse me. They’re a dull off-white, marred with holes and history. 
Unclean. Cloying.
“Back off,” I tell them. “You know I’m well-intended.” 
I glance away because this isn’t always the case.

III

Each morning, there are crates of hours stacked in front of me. 
Some filled with false alarms. Some leaking impossible promises. The expiration dates are meaningless.

       The aroma of bacon. 
       The sizzle of eggs. 
       The sorrowful slaughter. 
       The entitled theft. 

These are the harvests required to feed the hungry. To feed us all.

IV

“Let’s get physical,” my smoldering creativity suggests in a husky whisper. 
My balance is precarious. Not to be trusted entirely.
“Nothing is to be trusted entirely,” the Singed Earth shrugs. “So what?”
“Could you help me get the ladder, then?” I ask. “Most of the rungs are imaginary.”

V

We step outside. The Wind is ferocious. Stones are rolling away. 
“Is this chaos by design?” I ask. My eyes sting as I peer through dust and ashes.
"It’s complicated,” The Wind answers. “What we once designed is now designing us."
“I understand,” I nod, leaning into each consecration, my shroud wound around me. 
If I loosened it, I could fly. But I stand firm, surveying the damage.

VI

The chaff has blown away, revealing a gash in the Beating Heart. 
A shimmering stream of violet flows toward the River.
Violet is the most intense color on the visual spectrum. I wish I were blind.
“Where should I put the tourniquet?” I ask the First Responders, thinking myself a reluctant hero.
"Not your job, sweetheart,” they laugh. “We do our own repairs. But your old walls could use some color.” 
We locate the ladder and drag it in.

VII

A wall at a time, I mutter as I put drop-cloths down. My brush is worn, hands unsteady. 
Straight lines are no longer an option, and violet cannot be created by mixing old paint. 
I find refuge in curves and purple, rowdy resurrections, 
and all those Nascent Invisibilities yet to come.




*****

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Geraniums

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments

A devoted Buddhist once told me that he practices dying every night. Due to his oddly belligerent demeanor I didn’t ask for details. But it gave me ideas.

To die well requires less practice and more conscious forethought. A laissez-faire attitude toward mortality is common. But “dealing with things” long before your time comes is a kindness to the planet and your beloveds.

For instance, embalming fluids hold your placid smile in place for viewing, but they eventually leak out, and they’re poison. Sadly, though less toxic and land-consuming, cremation adds around 550 pounds of carbon dioxide to your carbon footprint.

So my newest idea involves compost (I hear my loved ones sighing, “Of course, it does.”) But they’ll thank me someday. I have a plan, and it’s simple.

My favorite quilter will help me create a colorful body wrap with handles and bright yellow ties to ease the burden of moving me to my chosen resting place.

There’s a boggy spot just behind the open-faced calving shed on the family ranch. It has a magical circle of aspen. As a child, I recognized this was a thin place between worlds. With any luck, I’ll die while the ground is warm and active, so a small backhoe can dig a shallow hole.

When I first began my own “dealing with things,” I had my friend built a coffin of rough-cut lumber, but now I realize that coffins are unnecessary. Cotton cloth is enough. I want the fewest barriers possible between me and the rich, good earth.

I want nothing to impede the dissolution or the dream.

My brooding seems to trigger the Not-God. “What about a headstone, you fool?” she shrieks. “How will your offspring find you in times to come?”

My Coauthor and I surround her with understanding arms, and the purple bruising of fear fades to ivory. We hold each other safe in the center of the Holy Dialectic. “My offspring have already found me,” I tell the Not-God. “And I them.”

In her clear contralto, my Coauthor begins to sing, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.” The Not-God covers her ears and shouts, “What will you do with that coffin, then? And all those stones you’ve gathered?”

I turn toward into the Shadow that she inhabits. “I’ve been lining the Path with smooth stones for years. And my former coffin will make a beautiful planter. Someone gave me some geraniums, and I feel certain they will be easy to propagate.

“What colors?” the Not-God whimpers.

“All of the colors,” I smile. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Pink,” she brightens and grins like a child. “Hot, hot pink.”

—

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The Coming of the Winter

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment 


Last night I went looking for the birds scratching in the walls, 
only to dream the noise was water waiting to freeze.
Birds are ingenious and nest where they aren’t welcome, 
causing moral and primal unease.

But untamed water is the mind of God, 
and there’s no way to contend with that. 

You can shore up your defenses, proclaim your innocence,
and pretend the meal is ready.
But the fine mist that shrouds the falls
keeps everyone unsteady.

Get back in bed, I tell myself, 
hoping this is good advice. There are birds in the walls,
and their body heat is melting the December ice.

Three Fearsome Poets have taken wing.
This explains the abrasions on your inner being.
Those who have been granted souls
must guard and keep them down and low.
Otherwise, they’ll be murdered or enslaved. 

As it should be, scream the Entitled and Depraved.
In geologic time, those vastly rich will drown 
just below the surface of the calm.
 
The eggs will hatch, regardless. The young already know.
I float naked over shoals of sediment and fish, 
gradually letting go. I only wish for covering 
and I see that it’s begun to snow.

When You Talk to Yourself, Listen

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

You can learn a great deal by eavesdropping on yourself. You might be blowing off steam, visiting with an imaginary friend, guiding yourself with step-by-step instructions, giggling at your own joke, crooning your favorite tune, or even giving yourself a piece of your mind.

It’s sad, but some people are merciless with themselves, speaking cruelly about their inadequacies and mistakes. There’s no joy in that, trust me. Slapping yourself alongside the head, declaring “I’m an idiot” does little good in the long run. It does not alleviate the shame.

Wise people try to talk nicely to themselves. This isn’t easy. It may require borrowing the voice of someone who knew and loved you back when you were young and well-intended. Positive reinforcement and compassion from within are powerful.

And then there are those holy, mostly one-sided conversations with the Unseen and Unseeable. These visits don’t always go well. Sometimes, all we speak of is how deserving we are, whining about the unfairness of life. We demand revenge for perceived slights and offer feeble excuses for our role in the pain.

A person could drown in that slime. I’ve come close, but so far, I’ve managed to grab a life vest, paddle to a humble shore, and crawl out. There, face up on the rocky beach, I watch the wind have its way with branches and clouds.

Often, the Creator with the Kindest Eyes stops by. We admire the expanse of eternity around us, and I snuggle into the warmth of denial. She doesn’t mind. This Creator has the gentlest voice I’ve ever imported, so I bank on a few minutes of peace.

“You’re mortal,” she says after our quiet time. “And you can’t take this disarray with you anyway.”

I smile, relieved.

We take a bracing inbreath of the Now and begin putting earthly things on the shelves where they belong. Memories come untethered, sweet and tender, rank and bitter. There are a few so hilarious that we gleefully throw ourselves backwards, right into the Great Dissolution. Here, the vulnerable children we once were roll marbles over the viper’s den. And the vipers and cobras have come out to play.

I panic.

“There are wars and rumors of wars,” I shout. “Famine and pestilence on all horizons.”  My chest cracks open. The children stop playing and crawl onto my lap.

“Oh, we know,” they nod, ancient and unfazed.

They wrap my beating heart in fine linen and begin singing the song I sing to myself when I can’t quite remember who I am.

It’s a lullaby. The cradle falls, but somehow, everything turns out fine.

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

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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