Tag: Poetry

Do-over Day

Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments 

                     Do-over Day
       (for my exhausted compatriots)

Things happen when the truth gets too close to the surface.
People grow more defensive. For instance, last night 
the neighbors lit so many candles 
against the coming storm
that their house burned 
to the ground.

Do-over day.

Some of the children have chosen to fly too close 
to the sun, and their tender wings are undone, 
dripping wax down their arms, but maybe
it’s worth it for that kind of light,
that kind of spectacle,
that kind of end.

Do-over day.

Behold! That which is old has birthed something new,
And that which was new has now grown old.
If you hold love too close to your heart
it will explode from all that pressure.
Let it go. It will grow or perish
all on its own.

Do-over day.

You know this by the smell of ground coffee
and offerings burnt to perfection, and syrup
sweet and sticky, the pitcher too close 
to the edge. If it falls, it will shatter, 
and you will be tempted to say
I told you so.

Do-over day.

This is the time to go back to bed, cover your head,
and resolve to kick the bejesus out of anyone
who tries to get too close while you regroup
in the primordial soup where you began.
You speak softly to your bent reflection
but she’s asleep.

Let her rest.

Here and Now

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 





In front of me, red curtains, 47 paint brushes, and a few years.

Alongside, turquoise drapes too long for the window wells,
a boiled skull, three wishbones, a pink phone, 
and the idea that I am loved.

Behind me, a life. 

Around me, The Idea loosely wrapped, permissive.
Another fall day. Chilly. Firewood stacked, dry and reassuring,
not necessary yet because

I have added layers. A down vest. Scarves.

If you read these lines and do not take stock
I’ve not reached my intended audience.
This is not uncommon. Perhaps there are too many

double negatives.

Above me, asbestos held in place by sheetrock.
Sky held in place by rain.
Gates flung open, releasing all the promises, broken or not.

I wish them all soft landings, my lips dyed crimson for a final kiss.







			




			
				


	


					
Seeing
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments		

			


	

		













Once in a while, the dead ask to borrow my eyes, and I almost always welcome them in. Sure, it can be sad and a little frightening, but it’s the least I can do. There’s nothing like the vision enjoyed by the living, and for the living, a briefly expanded view, though jarring, has its benefits.

When the dearly departed share my visual field, unsullied gratitude mingles with that vague longing triggered by the waning of summer.

My dead enjoy viewing fertile fields, mountain peaks, city streets, and tall trees. Some are in awe of babies, but others would rather watch a good football game, especially if their former favorites are playing.

You may wonder how this works. It’s not at all like being possessed. There are no ghosts. 

When I feel the light touch of a soul on my shoulder, I tilt my head ever so slightly and nod. The cataracts of being alive drop away, and the focus becomes eternal. It’s incredible. But such co-mingling must always be consensual.

So, I’m writing to ask a favor. When the time comes, would you consider loaning me a glance at the sunflowers and the cold, clear sky at night? Could I take a quick look at how the planet is doing from your preferred elevation?

In my experience, the dead are polite and cognizant of the demands of being alive. If you agree to my request, I’ll strive to be the same. True, in this life, I can be demanding, selfish, pigheaded, and insensitive. I suspect most of this will drop away as my body rejoins its origins. It is my intention to be thoroughly kind.

And if you want to follow my example and make similar requests while you still can, be my guest. No pressure, though. There are abundant alternatives. 

Older souls often borrow the eyes of donkeys, 
kittens, chickens, lions, puppies, bison, eagles, 
and even the occasional snake or bearded dragon. 

The dead frolic in memories 
and other succulent fictions. 
They are and they aren’t.  
And they don’t seem to mind 
one way or the other.

Even though I’m still temporarily alive, some mornings I touch the Shoulder of the Almighty, and she nods.

Goldfinches glow. 
Dust and ash sparkle. 
Gravity lifts.

We survey the rising hatreds, 
toeholds of courage, 
glimmers of benevolence, 
and black holes of despair. 

We stare into infinity, watching small endings and fragmented resurrections while the raspberries ripen, and a mournful dog howls in the distance.







			




			
				


	


					
Runoff
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments		

			


	

		









Lately, I’ve been fixated on guttering. We have a lot of unguttered or badly guttered buildings. When rain falls on impervious surfaces and is not guttered or sloped away, it pools up and erodes old foundations.

Water may seem innocuous. Innocent. But it is the (almost) universal solvent. According to the Khan Academy, “Water is key to the vast majority of cellular chemical reactions essential to life. Water molecules are polar, with partial positive charges on the hydrogens, a partial negative charge on the oxygen, and a bent overall structure.”

A bent structure may sound unattractive or dangerous, but in fact, it’s the magic that allows the embodiment of both the negative and the positive to coexist and dissolve nearly anything. 

But even with the threat of dissolution, rain is not the essential problem. Too many impenetrable surfaces are. 

Thus: guttering. The precious rainwater is renamed runoff and routed to centralized locations such as sewers or storage tanks. This creates the potential for stagnation or downstream flooding.

 As humans, we long for shelter from the storm. Impenetrability is tempting. It’s hard to be vulnerable, receptive, and thankful; harder still to lovingly accept rejection and scorn.

But we live in a world where the Coauthors and the Dancers cause the rain to fall on the just and unjust. The sun shines on the kindly folk as well as the cruel, selfish fools.

Many of us feel quite indignant about this. We seek justice but often end up plotting revenge. This storyline has no happy ending. In fact, it has no ending at all. Revenge is self-perpetuating.

Bullies, tyrants, and other impervious souls have developed gutters that shunt kindness and forgiveness off as if they were wastewater. The resulting pools putrefy due to the contaminants they’ve picked up, testifying to the toxicity of fear.

Watching sacrifices go down the drain or get routed to a holding tank where good intentions become sludge is painful.

Even so, the stubbornly resilient make plans (that will no doubt go awry) and dig deep into linty pockets to offer the widow’s mite.

The Holy Role-Models of Resilience are chaotic, redundant, and flighty. They live in the gutters and fix broken toys. And while wildfires rage, they shelter frightened families under scorched wings.

It sometimes seems that Creation has grown weary of us, and the exhausted Dancers have lost the beat. I honestly don’t know.

But in this briefest of moments, some of us have the great good fortune of being lilies of the field, hoping no one sprays us with a broad leaf herbicide as we turn our open faces to the cleansing rain and rejoice when sunlight breaks through.








			




			
				


	


					
Friendly Fire
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments		

			


	

		








Each moment is a drink of water,
a green ball bouncing down
the gravel road, a quandary as simple

as kindness, the idea of more stars.
There’s nothing to fear 
but the snapping of branches in the wind.

To live as a split infinitive is a sign of courage, 
a matter of style. Nothing is absolute.
To live now, half-formed, 

circling like a sharp-eyed hawk
is to accept an unnamed infinity
and a sense of chronic dislocation.

We are pages in a book of promises,
lies that come true, wishes that don’t,
dawns that arrive, nights that fall.

Give me your time. I’ll give you mine. 
After the danger of frost has passed
we’ll plant tomatoes and roses and basil

and go through the motions of poetry.
As the meaning soaks in we will succumb
to the vast and friendly fires of the sun.







			




			
				


	


					
IT IS AND IS NOT TOO LATE
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments		

			


	

		













Do not think you can abdicate.  





–W.H. Auden 






The Great Wrongness is upon us. Again. 
Do not wave white flags. Being taken captive is inadvisable. 
Seek shelter. Provide shelter. If you cannot go to places 
where the earth is less wounded, take comfort knowing
there are such places. Do what you can to protect them.

Put your hand over your beating heart, 
not to honor an arbitrary set of lines 
called country, but to remind yourself of Mystery. 
Breathe and move in wonderment. 
If your eyes still focus, 
send and receive the greenness of early spring.

Invite yourself in where you belong.
Make yourself a simple supper. 
Be generous to those who give others simple suppers. 
Sprout seeds in the moist darkness
and then plant them gently 
where they will get enough light.

Go through the motions of love 
even when it doesn’t feel like love. 
Teach your children honesty and courage. 
Teach them to share. Teach yourself to share. 
The Awfulness eventually comes apart 
when people share what they have. 
Break the bread and watch it grow.

It is and is not too late.
Help is and is not on the way. 
It is and is not up to you.
You do and do not know what to do.





Life is pain, your highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.





From The Princess Bride







			




			
				


	


					
Delusions to Die By
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













Though historians may beg to differ, it seems that humans have never been this close to self-annihilation. While wars rage and the earth gets trashed, the most pressing moral inquiry of the masses is this: “How can I get a better deal?”





A derisive snort and mocking applause announces The Presence in the corner.





“Hello, Holy Contradictions,” I mumble.





What I tease into words in the murky dawn might be the wind or a mouse scratching in the wall, but I feel certain something beyond is lurking in the cosmos. I offer greetings most mornings.





“Good day,” HC says, emerging from chimera to full status as a citizen unto itself. It has wings. It has legs. It has a beating, bleeding heart. “You aren’t wrong,” it adds from a perfectly formed mouth.





“You mean my sarcastic comment about the morality of acquisition? The Art of the Deal? Or the nearness of extinction?”





“It’s all rooted in selfish genes and the wrong-headed notion of survival of the fittest,” HC says with scorn. “You think you want fat lives, herd immunity, and evidence of superiority as indicated by possessions and an address on Easy Street.”





“True,” I admit. “That does sound good. Makes me want to be the fittest.”





HC snorts again. “Have you thought that through? C’mon. You’ve got the brain power to get beyond your genes. In the end, the Fittest will stand armed, paranoid, and alone. The winner of the rat race is a rat.”





“Nice platitudes,” I say. “Got a better way?”





HC shrugs. “Stop deluding yourself. No one survives. It’s Now that counts.”





“Thanks,” I snap. “I feel so much better.”





“The ultimate measure of fitness is how you love and protect the unfit. It’s time to break the light into itself, hold the Face of Anger in your hands, and let her bite you.”





My hands are fisted. “You are certifiably nuts,” I say in a low, edgy voice.





“And you are certifiably angry,” HC says with authority.





“Yeah. So, I’m supposed to bite myself?”





HC nods. “And hold the Faces of Joy and Justice but be careful. They’re elusive and explosive.”





“You’re seriously insane,” I say. “I can’t do any of this.”





“Oh, but you can,” HC insists, not at all sympathetic. “Hold all the Faces of Insanity in your hands and let them bite the hell out of you.”





I stare at my weathered hands. The biting has begun.





“I’d rather hold your face,” I plead, frightened.





“Oh, my little mosquito!” HC says gently. “What do you think you’re doing?” 





A grim hilarity takes hold. I slap myself silly, and for now, we get on with it.














			




			
				


	


					
In Sheep’s Clothing
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments		

			


	

		









News flash: There’s a deadly outbreak of malice spreading rapidly. We’re all at risk. The Belt of Truth is too tight on our fat bellies. We’ve armed ourselves with swords of scorn and hatred. Most days, I am sick with fear.
  
“Ice cream?” God offers. “Roses? Chocolate? A little nap?” 
I make the sign of the cross and turn away. 
She continues, “Wanna shoot some hoops? How ‘bout them Celtics?”
“Leave me alone. Go smite someone or something,” I say. “I’ll help.”

“Nah. That’s nonsense,” she laughs. 
“As I’ve explained many times, I don’t smite. 
That’s all projection, poetry, and myth.”
“But doesn’t it matter?” I argue. “Isn’t something true?”
“Well, yes, fables have morals, and there is such a thing 
as poetic justice,” God agrees and rambles on.

“But that’s like when you trust a dead branch 
and it breaks. Chicken Little was not famous for laying eggs, 
and the boy who cried wolf missed his cue.”

“Did I miss my cue?” I ask. I’m dizzy.
 
A cold wind has picked up, 
distorting the faint clarion call I’ve been straining to hear.
It sounds like a flute.
“Tune it out,” God says.
“It’s the seduction of ravenous rats. 
And there are self-anointed royalty riding golden calves,
herding innocent swine into the sea. 
It’s a rave. A goddamn rodeo.”
 
The ordinary disintegrates as the storm intensifies. Finally, God is joined by God. And God. They’re closing the Interstate, rerouting traffic onto narrow byways. Rusting tanks and trucks stalled with rotting food aid line both sides of the road. It’s not scenic. Drivers look straight ahead to avoid these views, but even now, there are children playing in the streets. It takes skilled swerving to avoid catastrophe.

I’m driving our oldest vehicle, a Chevy from the 60s.

“Get in,” I shout to the Gods and the children.“We’re making a break for it.”
They pile in, and I stomp on the gas. 
Our necks snap as the Chevy lifts off and we achieve cruising altitude.
“Ouch!” the Gods complain. “Whiplash!”
“Oh yeah?” I flash a sinister smile. “I’ll show you whiplash.” 
I tilt the wheel straight down, and we plummet back to earth.

We crash land in Gaza. Sudan. Ukraine. Congo. 
We smash into infirmaries and food banks with empty shelves. 
We crawl out, wounded and dead.
The sky has fallen.

Chunks of heaven are thundering toward Gomorrah 
and the Fat Boy is screaming WOLF
while the wolves remove their bonnets 
and fling their sheep’s clothing aside.

It is time to gather at the river, 
wash the discarded wool, 
spin the yarn, 
and knit ourselves back together. 
It’s going to be a long, cold winter.







			




			
				


	


					
Tallies
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













How many pots have you scorched in pursuit 
of the good life, warm soup, or steamed greens? 
No worries. You’re often distracted by sparkling words.

How many scrapes and bruises have you endured 
because of hasty departures or overpacked plans? No sweat. 
You thought you could cut corners that cannot be cut.

Is your fastidious loading of the dishwasher 
a point of pride or a place to hide
because the terrain of shame is so steep?

You polish your resentments like silver. This isn't wise.
Pack them up and drag them to town. Melt them down.
The Blacksmith turns everything into serving bowls.

Conjure up some joy. Old is inescapable.
Young is no one’s fault. Apologize when you recognize
that your memories are wrong. Gently move along.

How many times must you be reminded
that only love is worth the extra weight?
One more time, you plead. One more time.

But what is love? A tally that tips the scales?
Count the stars in the heavens, the hairs on your head. 
Map the terrain of your body. Make a schema of your heart,

and when your beleaguered soul demands a list 
of what you’ve done that matters,
give it a cup of something warm and curl up for a nap.











			




			
				


	


					
The Big Bang
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan12 Comments		

			


	

		













The Big Bang slammed me awake last night. I leapt up, disoriented by the interplay of light and dark.





“Where’s that damn cloaking device?” The Voices of God bellowed as they rushed around the cosmos, causing huge dust storms and limited visibility. “There are incoming attributions and false narratives. Cheap bombs, shrapnel, black holes, and clusterfucks. Get under the bed and dig, baby, dig.”





In times like these, God never makes literal sense, but the urgency was palpable. I grabbed a robe and raced for the hills. Everything was coming apart. Suffering shimmered in the frigid air, obscuring the path, garbling the few words that meant anything.





The ark capsized. Creatures great and small swam to shore and thundered uphill behind me, trying to escape inbound tsunamis of ignorance and the cruel waves of degeneration. God’s hair was on fire, flames licking the heavens dry.





I tossed the cloaking device to the Creators and shouted, “Get out while you can.”





God disappeared into a flock of starlings that lifted from tree to sky, rejoicing. Their seamless undulations blocked the sun, blinding everyone below. Soldiers on both sides dropped their guns, and we wrapped ourselves in white. There was nothing left to do but lie flat and let the earth cradle our slim and innocent hopes.





To God, we are an exotic species, endangered and angular. We bend light and draw fire in unpredictable ways. As singularities, we’ve been extinct from the beginning, but in limited multiplicities, we eke out tenuous lives in tents pitched on the banks of an ever-rising river.





“Who are you?” a curly-haired child tugged on my sleeve; brown eyes luminescent. Green eyes, piercing. Blue eyes glinting black. The child was hungry but did not ask for food.





“What are you doing?” an old man demanded, his beard blazing red, his legs blown off. It seemed clear that I did not meet with his approval.





“Are you my father?” I whispered, frightened by the familiarity of it all. “Are you my child?”





The cloaking device deactivated. The scales fell from my eyes. The child ate. The old man laughed and slapped my back. The starlings landed and began nesting in the warm cleavages of Abraham’s lovers: Hagar; Sarah; Keturah. Other Mothers appeared: Adishakti; Mary; Kali; Maya; and of course, and always, Grandmother Eve.





“So many Mothers in one place,” I said. “You’re in big trouble.”





“I can handle it,” the Idea of God waved dismissively. “Go back to sleep.”





I grabbed the weathered hands and shook my head. “You’re going to need some help. I’m staying.”





Grandmother patted the bench beside her. “It won’t be long either way,” she smiled. “Suit yourself.”