Poem – Short visits with an honest God

(For Pete)

Today, Class, we are discussing the term knucklehead.

Put your hands out, palms down,
fingers stretched wide,
and observe the miracle of the knuckle.
Bend your fingers into claws and pretend you are a cat.
Make fists. Punch the air. Right jab. Left jab.
Lie down on the ground, palms up.
Let the hands relax into that easy gentle curl
of knuckles at rest.

Our bodies are a plethora
of joints, ligaments, tendons, and cartilage,
a sinewy mass of soft tissue and bone,
skull held aloft by spine
sheltering the heavy gray matter
of God and similar cogitations.

And thus, Class, we combine knuckle and head.
This is a joke. You may laugh.

Ha ha, chuckles my star student,
the God of Some Sort, the one
who is always studying me.

Some Sort continues. May I suggest we include
arthritis and dementia in the curriculum?

No, you may not, I answer crisply.
But then I realize this is inevitable.

Wait. Yes, We can include the underbelly.
But YOU have to own it.
Own the disease. The deterioration.
Own the porosis, the vertigo.
Own the broken. Own the pain.
Own the death.

Some Sort responds, firm. Unafraid.
No Problem, Knucklehead,
I’m right there. It’s my pain, too, you know.
My design. My fire.
My death. I own it.
I nod. Not elated. Not defeated.

Class dismissed, I write on the board
in dusty blue chalk.

The God of Some Sort and I begin
a vigorous cleaning of the erasers
and the world disappears
in a cloud of bluish haze.

I’m tired of calling you God, I say,
as I watch a goldfinch eat chokecherries.
And I’m tired of being called that,
God answers in green, disrobes to fire.

I’m surrounded with absurdity, anger, and absolutes,
but the branch does not break with the weight of the feasting bird.
Sky backdrops vultures circling
but they don’t block the sun.

Layers of harvest are upon me,
a comeuppance of carrots, chard, and beets.
Leering pumpkins, wily cucumbers,
and basil going to seed.

Going to seed.

My hands smell of onion.
My eyes sting from wildfire smoke.
The Collective strums chords
composed for disintegration.

What, then, shall I call you? I ask, settling. Sad.
I’ve always liked Improbable, God says,
then adds but Maybe.
Too much. I shake my head. And not enough.

God smiles a rather evil smile.
Perhaps you could crowdsource the Question.

No way, I say. I wouldn’t like their answers,
and they’d rip me to pieces.
That’s a given, God sighs.
But for now, gather and share.

I don’t want to, I admit.
Improbable but Maybe begins to rain.

If you want to achieve exit velocity, It whispers,
You need to strengthen those wings.

Did I say I wanted to fly? I ask

But that’s exactly what I want.
And I admit, I’ve said it many times.
I do want to fly.

Tag: Poem

Knucklehead

Watching a Goldfinch Eat Chokecherries