Tag: Love

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.












			




			
				


	


					
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.”







			




			
				


	


					
Solstice
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













There are vast deposits of nature’s oddities, discarded treasure, and shiny objects tucked away in the nooks and crannies of my life. All that regenerative potential should bring joy. A sense of purpose. Right? Instead, I am bound and gagged by my own good fortune.





I’ve tried to hack free from the bonds of salvation and travel lighter, but when I manage to get rid of something, seven or eight similar items appear and repopulate the collection. Or, within days, I realize I threw away the one thing I truly needed. And this includes certain types of people.





Perhaps the solution is to want nothing and need nothing. Turn my back on all those possibilities. Grin at the fool in the broken mirror but then move on. Let shards be shards. Empty the closets, the barns, the basement, the attic. Empty the soul.





But how?





Bonfires come to mind, but there are restrictions due to the drought. And the smoke and thermal waves rising from burn piles and bombings are disturbing. The trapped gasses of humanity are slowly broiling the surface of the earth. I hate adding to the roiling disaster.





I’ve tried giving things away, but bequeathing is fraught with misunderstandings or rejection. And attempting to add organic matter, stir, and compost a lifetime supply of wheel barrels and hollow-core doors would be irreversibly toxic in its own way.





“What about burying your troubles in a deep pit?” whispers the Excavator. “Out of sight, out of mind.”





“Have digger, will dig, eh?” I elbow Infinity.





The Excavator flexes, and even though I still possess a modicum of faith, I back away.





“Go restore a riverbank or something, Ex. I’m NOT going to bury everything.”





“Not everything, darling. Be selective. Choose a few token articles or worthless people, toss them in the pit, and I’ll cover them up. You can provide my alibi.”





“I have neither the time nor the strength for that kind of discernment. Have you seen that lumber pile with all those rusty nails screaming tetanus? Even if there were seven of me, we’d have no chance. And I can’t provide your alibi. I’m mortal.”  





The Excavator lifts its Golden Bucket, and suddenly, there are endless versions of me, doubled over in the garden pulling weeds. The Jester begins a ridiculous rap.





The weeds keep winning, 
but the party’s beginning. 
Multiplicities prancing.
The Longest Light dancing. 
The Amazements are serving cocktails.

This too shall pass
So don’t sit on your ass…

Dark clouds burst into laughter above the entire assemblage. The drought has ended. And a recently dug hole the size of Texas is filling with runoff from the sweet, sweet rain.







			




			
				


	


					
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.
























			




			
				


	


					
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.”


			




			
				


	


					
Holding Patterns
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		









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

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

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

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

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




     
     Holding Patterns

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

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

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

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

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

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

              II                                                                                     
It’s easy to hate.

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

         III

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

























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

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


			




			
				


	


					
IQ Test
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment		

			


	

		








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





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





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





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





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





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





She begins.





    

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






(Unlikely)





    

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






(None of the above)





    

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






(Carrots)





    

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






(To hide)





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





(Pass)





    

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






(Run amok)





    

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






(Beer)





    

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






(Pretty much all of them)





    

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






(None of your business)





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





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





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





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





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