Tag: Mystical insights

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.”

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

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The Nearly Frozen Woman

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 





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





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





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

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

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





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





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





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





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





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





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












			




			
				


	


					
Greeting the Vast Expanse
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













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





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





You do not.





No, seriously, I do.





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





This breaks what little heart I have left.





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





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





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





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





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





For this, I give thanks.










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





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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.”




















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.









			




			
				


	


					
Chicken Little: A Performance Piece
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













            Chicken Little could have scratched for worms, hatched chicks, and lived out her life unperturbed. Instead, an acorn fell and hit her on the head, and she determined the sky was falling. She grabbed her purse and ran to tell the king.
            Other hapless poultry joined the histrionic procession. A wily fox lured them aside, took the contents of their wallets, and ate them.
            The fox returned to the castle. “I love conspiracy theories,” he exclaimed as he posed for pictures of himself playing golf.
            “I’m a fantastic poser,” he said to the photographers. “If these portraits don’t measure up, you’ll be my next meal.”

The Grapes of Wrath

Acorns and apples, peaches and pears. They fall.
What we make of this is not all there is to the story.
Fermentation is an option.

The flesh is willing, but timing is everything.
The bearing of fruit, oh the delicate dance
of chance and bees and early frost. So much is lost
along the Way, trampled under foot
or eaten by gleaners, birds, and bruins,

but seeds have the final word. 
What appears to be in ruins is fodder for the sprouting.

Of course, there must be rain.

There must be rain. And it must fall
hither and yon, far beyond 
what you’ve ever considered
as anything you could love.
 
We’ve laden the sky with satellites, 
weaponry, smoke, and terror.
These things will fall back down 
to bruise our bodies, scorch our lungs, 
and worry us to death.
 
We’ve misplaced our feeble hope. 
It dwells in the eternal churning 
of very troubled waters.

            Using passive sonar, it’s possible to estimate the depths of these waters. Humans arrived without fanfare or legs, and newborns are mostly water. 
            It’s tempting but futile to sacrifice your tongue to walk on land searching for love. Tempting but fruitless to kill the troubling albatross. Ask the Mermaid or Mariner. The penalties are steep.
            “Water, water, everywhere. But not a drop to drink,” laughs the Plagiarist. “I’ve placed valves in your heart, so the blood only flows one way, thus saving you from the ragged passions of retrograding and regret.”
            “And I’ve created flumes to route it back.” I reply. “This time, the sky is falling.”
            “There’s no such thing as sky,” the Coauthor laughs. I notice the gleaming teeth.
            “You’re going to eat me, aren’t you?”

            As the Coauthor takes my hand, the ice in my veins begins to melt, and we wade through the slush toward the table, set for two.  I realize that we are each other’s meal.
            “Shall I order wine?” the Coauthor asks.
            “Sure,” I nod.” The intensity of a Petite Sirah sounds good.”







			




			
				


	


					
Ancestry
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













My disposition this morning: 

             No matter how stout or frail, uphill or down, prophet or clown,
             the final hour will come.

             We’ll each be defined by what’s left behind so be kind, damn it.
             Be kind.

Maybe I should wait for a better mood to write, but it’s getting hot. I don’t hold out much hope for anything but modest hydration and loose-fitting clothes.

Desquamation is the shedding of the outermost layer of the epidermis. Living people do it all the time. It is natural. Essential. And the dust left behind varies in hue depending on race. 

David Sedaris wrote that he wants to crawl into crisp, clean sheets in his hotel bed every night. Does he know anything about the cost of hot water and the toxicity of chlorine? Does he fear his own white detritus?

We litter our days with legalized greed, leaving dirty dishes, hurt feelings, tattered aspirations, and false humility to churn around us as we drift downstream, laden with envy and small regrets.
   
One time, after climbing a famous butte in our region, our vegetarian friend was given a T-bone steak by accident. He left nothing behind but the gnawed bone which he took home to remember. For one sparkling moment, his plate was clean.

Our contradictions enlighten us. It is a blessed thing to circle back and forgive or be forgiven. Even more blessed to yell pshaw, slap our knees, and gleefully guffaw at the absurdity of trying to eradicate weeds.

Thus sayeth the Many: You cannot look away from a spiraling plane nor stop the impending crash. You cannot even slow the shedding of your lovely skin. 

Thus sayeth me: I know. But do you promise you’ll have the final Word? 

Thus sayeth Them: Yes.

Thus admidith me: Sorry, but I don’t believe you.

Thus reassureth Them: You’re not alone.

In the crowded photo booths of life, the ancestors show up as shadows, inclined toward simple guidance. Be honest. Be worthy, generous, and wise. But most of all, be kind, damn it. Be kind. 


*******







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Upon Awakening
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













Hey. Is that you?
Yes.
It’s so dark it’s hard to tell.
I know. I don’t expect you to be sure.

Could you wave your cosmic baton and let there be light?
I could. But it wouldn’t help.
Why? Because then you’d hide?
No. Darkness and light are the same to me.

I don’t find that reassuring.
You’re not alone. Most don’t.
We’re on the same team, right?
No. We’re not.

But you adore swamis, crones, and mavens, don’t you?
In a manner of speaking, yes, I do.
You have a funny way of showing it.
True. And the stars agree. They’re laughing.

Sorry. I can’t hear the stars.
You can’t hear the stars. You can’t see in the dark.
It’s rude to make fun of my deficits.
That’s me. A rude, crude, dude. 

Are you making a point?
Yes.
I don’t get it.
Relax.

When I relax, I’m afraid.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Nowhere I want to go.
That’s the point. Take my elbow.

I’d rather eat a snake.
No you wouldn’t.
All right. I wouldn’t.
Would you like some pizza or a protein bar?

Not really. Is that all you got?
For now, that’s about it.
Okay, then. I’m going to tally up all my dead friends.
Well, if you were wise, you’d tally the living ones.

I’m not into that positivity claptrap.
Clearly. But I must demur. Being positive can help.
Do you think the F-word is appropriate for poetry?
Absolutely. Better than puppy or paradise or peony.

Are there any right choices?
You make me a little crazy. You KNOW the answer.
But why is BEING KIND so hard?
I have no idea. In the original plan, it was easy.

I doubt you ever had a plan.
Well, you’re wrong. I have plans. So many plans.
So do I. But it’s futile to make plans, isn’t it?
Not at all. Plans are the way blood circulates.

I don’t recognize myself in this current form.
You have no actual form.
But then how will I ever know myself?
Same way you know it’s me. Leave the lights off.





*******





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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