Tag: Poem

Not a Poem

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments


“As soon as he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, made clay of the spittle,
and anointed the eyes of the blind with the clay,”

As happens some mornings, words take control; familiar, whimsical, entitled. Perhaps in another life, I was a rapper, an erstwhile prophet flinging ribbons of rhymes, taunting derelict deities with their shady designs. This is an appealing possibility. I consult with the Coauthor:

“Hey, is there any chance I was ever…”
“No.”
“But sometimes, I see a fragment of you in the swirl…”
“You cannot contain me in words. I’m not a Poem.”
“But you are a fragment.”
“Or a figment, a pigment, a glimmer of hope.”
“See? You can’t help yourself, can you?”

My Coauthor blushes, caught in the act of being.
We laugh at this gaffe. And we write.

Spit on the Ground

If you’re being kidnapped or murdered
you should spit on the ground
to help the police know who they’ve found
if they find you.

And with the time you have left,
let your DNA shine. Leave something sublime behind.
Joy, rich soil, saliva, or stone.

What is the blink of an eye if you’re blind?
Let colors erupt in your mind.
Mud and Muse.
Ocean and bruise. Pay your dues.
Be here or be gone.

If you want to be found, spit on the ground.

It may all come down to that spit on the ground,
the migration of nouns to verbs, wingless birds, hollow bones.

All that’s unknown in our tender years
hides in our genes, unseen.
waiting for subtle expression
or release from repression.
Ready to blast into being.

If They knock and come in, look around.
The thinnest of lines grow wider with time,
and you’ll know the true cost of that spit on the ground.
It’s the only way anyone is ever found.

“But do you?” the Coauthor asks quietly.
“Do I what?”
“Know the true cost of that spit on the ground?”
“No. I do not,” I admit with some shame.
“That’s what I thought. I’m not a Poem, but I do know your name.”

I rally and grin. “You know that’s not true, but what’s there to do?”
The Coauthor sighs. “Here’s my advice. Take time to be nice. The larger the act, the higher the price. Sometimes it will even cost you your life.

“Um, I don’t like the sound of that pitch,” I said.
The Coauthor nods. “Sorry my dear, but as good poets know, editing’s a bitch.”

Ah yes. The Edit.
And the Eternal Question: Who gets the credit?
Your head adorned, or your head on a platter.
In the end, I promise, these things will not matter.

Knucklehead

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

(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.

Watching a Goldfinch Eat Chokecherries

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

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.