Tag: Redemption

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. 


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






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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.”







			




			
				


	


					
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.”







			




			
				


	


					
To Read A Poem Aloud
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













To read a poem aloud has risks. Here are some safety tips:

•	Clear your throat and mind.
•	Let the syllables control the wheel.
•	Soften your gaze.
•	Do not pretend to understand (but maybe you will).

And now, for a chance to practice. Enunciate. Be brave.

                      Visitations

When God comes by, there’ll be no glare. 
The Mighty Incognito travels light
and hides inside your cravings drinking vodka,
laughing like a fool just out of sight.

When the weather seems to get the upper hand, 
dig into the compost of the past
and listen to the microbes singing love songs.
knowing all that stuff and nonsense doesn’t last.

The clash and clang and riptides are deceptive.
Our young ones watch as melodies decay.
This etude has no ending or beginning, but
underneath the notes, you’ll find the way.

So get thee to the shadows, tiny dancer.
Survival should no longer be thy goal.
Smile while all the moments turn to ashes..
Then faint upon thy couch and rest thy soul.

(Important facts about composting: 1) The mesophilic, or moderate-temperature phase, lasts a day or two; 2) The thermophilic, or high-temperature phase, lasts from a few days to many weeks; and 3) The maturation, or cooling phase, lasts for several months.)

Questions to consider: 

•	Is compost evidence of life after death?
•	Is nonsense sacred? Profane? Nourishing?
•	How often do you check your weather app?
•	Should God make appointments or just stop by?
•	Do you even have a couch? If so, give thanks.


* * * *





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









































			




			
				


	


					
The Saving
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments		

			


	

		


















Because our species is prone to greed, fear, and cruelty, most of us are vaguely aware that we need continuous course correction or maybe even redemption. This is dangerous. It spawns lies and idols, tall tales and archaic formulas. Sometimes, it engenders groveling and the beating of one’s chest.





This false humility is not helpful. Ironically, genuine humility is exactly what The Saving requires of you.





The Saving is amorphous. A process. An ache beyond our intellect but not beyond our collective intuitions. It is animated kindness, the substitute for sacrifices we should make ourselves. The Saving is a band of travelers singing songs, slinging seeds, only some of which will grow to shade the paths we cannot help but take.





The Saving is a river and an ocean. A hunger for justice. Merciful shelter when all hell has broken loose. The Saving is permission to seek peace. To rest assured. To regroup and begin again.





The Saving springs from the mind of Zeus, the whirling of dervishes, the Splintered Singularity of universal grace. It has neither creed nor crescendo. The Saving is the Whole. The Many. The Few. The One. The Saving has beautiful feet. Washed. Sandled. Ready.





The Saving is the Women who forever watch the essence of their offspring wafting upward in the futile heat of war. The Saving has no weapons. None.





When you call upon The Saving, it is an evolutionary plea, a mantra to the Truth, chanting that centers the chaos of the night. The Saving unsettles and then sometimes soothes the soul.





The Saving is a classroom in a tent, a nursing home short-staffed, new wine, old beer, anticipation so eternal we often call it hope. The Saving is a name for all messiahs, a congregated force, a twinkle in the Eye.





Your beliefs provide no wavers nor do they justify your judgments. The bylaws have been simplified. Be honest and courageous. Let your heart be lifted, neither troubled nor afraid.





The Saving has collected so much dross along the Way that a great and awful swelling has begun. The skin across the belly of the earth has purple stretch marks. The Saving breaks the membranes and drinks the holy waters in our stead.





The Saving is the laughter of the martyrs, the scapegoat of the wayward, the surrender. The Saving whispers those sweet nothings everyone longs to hear. Most days, this brings some comfort. 





But when you weaken and speak in the tongues of the entitled or the petty, The Saving snaps your head off and replaces it with petunias and geraniums until you forgive your lesser selves and start the day anew.







			




			
				


	


					
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









			




			
				


	


					
Road Work
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













Meditation, prayer, or even simple quiet times are thought to be beneficial, but there are no guarantees. In timeout, stimulation is reduced to the view of the corner and the scooting of the chair upon which the offender fidgets. This consequence of naughtiness is supposed to reduce agitation and encourage reflection, but it often visits holy hell on the mind screaming for more adrenalin. Try it sometime. Naps don’t count.





Staring off into space is somewhat different. The body slumps. The eyes glaze over. Brain activity appears to be reduced to breath and balance. Scientists have yet to determine if the space being stared into is internal or external, just as they cannot completely verify the source of dreams.





“These are dusty byways,” Road Grader interjects. “On certain neural pathways, the ruts can get deep and dangerous. The gravel sluffs off to the sides. Sometimes, a load of crushed rock has to be hauled in.”





Unfortunately, I understand what Road Grader is saying. When access to meaning is choked off by franticality or self-indulgence, even primitive stillnesses might provide a faint trail back to intentionality. But these accidental down times can go wrong, or peter out into the vast nowhere, leaving you uncertain where to stand.





Road Graders of the Soul do precision work, leveling, removing debris, and clearing the Way. If the Road Grader roars into your blank stare and begins widening your consciousness, don’t panic. Offer pastries and fuel.





“Now that’s some good advice,” Road Grader declares, slapping me on the back a little too vigorously.





“Ow!” I yell. “I’m not a monk in training. No hitting.”





“Sorry,” she says. “But I like having your attention.”





“Why?” I ask, still smarting from the slap.





“What else would you be paying attention to?” she asks.





I stall. She waits.





“Okay. Fine. My attention drifts to the sorry state of the world, my list of things to do, my ailments, and/or how to consume less sugar. I might even ruminate on revenge or rehearse edgy rebuttals. I can’t go around immersed in lovingkindness all the time.”





“Of course not. But you can go around making things a little easier for those in need.” Road Grader pats her lap and beckons. I climb aboard like a thrilled little kid. She won’t allow me to maneuver the levers that adjust the blade, but she lets me steer, and for hours, we level the playing field beneath us in deliberate, glorious circles.





“This might be my new calling,” I exclaim joyfully. “Just smoothing the way. Removing bumps.” 





“Maybe,” Road Grader grins. “But don’t forget about backhoes. Digging in is fun, too.”





_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_















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














			




			
				


	


					
Staring into the Fire
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments		

			


	

		













The singular life you’re living is an astonishment. A statistical improbability. And yet, here you are, doing what you’re doing. People are goose-stepping in a military parade in North Korea, singing alto in a choir in Kenya, or smoking weed in a field of daisies in the Alps. Someone is starving in Cuba, bombed out in Lebanon, or issuing psychotic threats designed to make the ultimate deal.





       “We like to think of y’all as one seething miracle,” God chuckles.
       “And I like to think of this hot mess as a rotting pile of shit. With the occasional shiny moment.”
       This cracks God up. After they catch their breath, they tell me, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”
       “What wash?” I ask.
       “The Wash of the Ages. The Blazing Baptism of Infinity.”
       “No one likes the sound of that,” I say. 
       “Listen anyway. And look directly at the fire.”

This particular moment, shiny or otherwise, is yours. It, too, is an astonishment. Lift your eyes from these words slowly. Stare straight into the void that is your future. Settle. Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Don’t laugh. Do nothing but warm your hands and be honest.





       “I’ve got four horsemen fleeing, three gods in waiting, two doves turned away at an artificial border, and one faithful moon reflecting every bloody thing.” God shrugs as if this is all passé. 
       “You’re being difficult this morning,” I complain. “Where’s your downy underbelly?”
       “You’re my downy underbelly.”
       “No. I want to be greatness and glory,” I protest. “Not soft.”
        “Everyone softens over time. But you must also be steady and brave.”

You’ve been sworn to a secrecy so wild and profound that it is beyond memory. Laced with magic, ladened with love. You once were and will again be a swirl of sparks and pigments. But for now, nothing has ever mattered so much as justice and mercy. Welcome your longings and ignorance, your power and fear. Tend to the prairies and the oceans. Temper your greed with compassion. Admire the mountains and the sun. Circle the moon. And wear your courage like armor over your tender heart.





***   ***   ***




















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