Tag: Grace

Mr. Shiny Buttons

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

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

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

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.”

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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.”

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

The Birds of the Air

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Some mornings, I am at peace with dusty shelves and streaked surfaces. Content to consider life in silence, fingertips touching, thumbs unopposed. These are the wiser times; each breath, a centering gift..

Such reverie never lasts. The inevitable interruptions are reminders that my eternal rest has not yet begun. Sometimes, it’s a friendly neighbor. Or a gust of wind blowing something over. This time, it’s a sickening thud on the window that disrupts the mood and ushers in a host of uninvited guests: the Holy Chorus of Fallen Birds.

“Oh, is somebody trying to be contemplative?” the Chorus chides. “Stop lounging around in your shallow safety and pathetic pajamas. We need protection from all that glass.”

I loathe this kind of intrusion. I want to plead ignorance, but the rising essence of millions of broken necks testifies to the credulous assumption of human supremacy. Panoramic views matter more than the lives of our feathered friends.

“But what can I do?” I whine, trying to shake off any culpability. “I don’t build skyscrapers or make the rules.”

“Is there a dead body under your modest, residential window?”

“Probably. But what’s one in the billion that die every year?”

“It’s One. In a billion.”

The answer is solemn. Not accusatory. Just solemn.

One in a billion is infinitesimal, I think to myself. I want to go outside and chuck the telltale body into the compost. But then it occurs to me that I am not even one in a billion, nor are any of you, dear compatriots. Even together, we are a handful in 8.3 billion of our kind. Is this an excuse or an accusation? Is it even comprehensible?

The sparrow falling, the raven drafting upward on thermal currents, the midnight broodings of a Saw-whet owl, yellow canaries littering the coal mines of our solipsistic ways; these are the harbingers of both glad tidings and funereal finalities.

The Holy Chorus of Fallen Birds performs at the break of dawn, but they rehearse through the darkest hours. There is no such thing as a silent night. Often, our worst wrecks are accidental and our denials naïve, but neglect is never actually benign. What if you amass enormous wealth, the best views, the most gold, but lose your soul?

As extinctions accelerate, The Mother Hen will sit on her nest through the fires, protecting her chicks unto death. But when the children emerge from under the charred body, what will await them?

This is yet to be determine. It may be mostly up to us, but The Chorus will sing to the end.

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

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

The Saving

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Because our species is prone to greed, fear, and cruelty, most of us are vaguely aware that we need continuous course correction or maybe even redemption. This is dangerous. It spawns lies and idols, tall tales and archaic formulas. Sometimes, it engenders groveling and the beating of one’s chest.

This false humility is not helpful. Ironically, genuine humility is exactly what The Saving requires of you.

The Saving is amorphous. A process. An ache beyond our intellect but not beyond our collective intuitions. It is animated kindness, the substitute for sacrifices we should make ourselves. The Saving is a band of travelers singing songs, slinging seeds, only some of which will grow to shade the paths we cannot help but take.

The Saving is a river and an ocean. A hunger for justice. Merciful shelter when all hell has broken loose. The Saving is permission to seek peace. To rest assured. To regroup and begin again.

The Saving springs from the mind of Zeus, the whirling of dervishes, the Splintered Singularity of universal grace. It has neither creed nor crescendo. The Saving is the Whole. The Many. The Few. The One. The Saving has beautiful feet. Washed. Sandled. Ready.

The Saving is the Women who forever watch the essence of their offspring wafting upward in the futile heat of war. The Saving has no weapons. None.

When you call upon The Saving, it is an evolutionary plea, a mantra to the Truth, chanting that centers the chaos of the night. The Saving unsettles and then sometimes soothes the soul.

The Saving is a classroom in a tent, a nursing home short-staffed, new wine, old beer, anticipation so eternal we often call it hope. The Saving is a name for all messiahs, a congregated force, a twinkle in the Eye.

Your beliefs provide no wavers nor do they justify your judgments. The bylaws have been simplified. Be honest and courageous. Let your heart be lifted, neither troubled nor afraid.

The Saving has collected so much dross along the Way that a great and awful swelling has begun. The skin across the belly of the earth has purple stretch marks. The Saving breaks the membranes and drinks the holy waters in our stead.

The Saving is the laughter of the martyrs, the scapegoat of the wayward, the surrender. The Saving whispers those sweet nothings everyone longs to hear. Most days, this brings some comfort.

But when you weaken and speak in the tongues of the entitled or the petty, The Saving snaps your head off and replaces it with petunias and geraniums until you forgive your lesser selves and start the day anew.

To Linger

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 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.”

*******

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

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