Tag Archives: Impermanence

the turkey and the chef

17 Nov

In the pan

browning on all sides of

my cubist self–forward, back, and side at once.

edge living

is hot!

 

at times I try to jump from the flame,

my own juice

basting over my head

a humiliating baptism to the one

who has forgotten

the agreement of what’s for dinner.

the hairs on my arms seek like radars

trying to read the flames’ intention; even though,

I signed a waiver.

 

veins pulse while

the heart is in its throws–

 

with or without me along.

I’m  cooked so long

falling off the bone

tender

tender

who sees the anxious fingers

slip into the pan

to satisfy the longing

for a preview bite

of this upcoming feast?

 

 

 

 

 

parenting by powerpoint

17 Mar

Everyday bad things happen, so-

I’ve drawn you a flow chart

to take you from point a to z

with arrows to the short cuts

so roughly won by me.

Let me help you jump over ditches

and avoid the dead-end streets.

Watch my greatest hits of

heartache, thought addiction, faux pas, shame, fear, regret,

so you can save yourself the trouble.

Look, simply, I can help you

avoid the ramifications of not heeding good advice.

I didn’t even know I had it in me, as non-linear as I can be,

to map it out for you, but I did;  I’ve a crash course on not crashing.

But I’m being asked another task, much different than what I’ve done.

The night now asks me to have a courage I don’t know how to muster –

I’m now to be the watcher and not the player and not the coach.

I’m now to calm my plotting mind.

I’m instructed not to imagine trains flying off of their tracks

even while I feel the lurch and screech

of the metal momentum – see sparking in the air.

I’m to observe as boats sink, as elevators release and fall,

as villains creep most uncartoon-like in dark shadows when you pass by;

who orchestrates such visions – where are the views of nature walks, of laughter,

of joy?   Why the fear, why the wrecks, why the destruction?

Why am I thinking of how my parents must have ached and quaked

sitting in hospital rooms, listening to white coat protocol-

powerless

except to release a real-life child to death, to unthinkable death.

I mouthed the words but I didn’t register the meaning –

because I’m still on the simpler fare—

that love is holding the tongue

and squeezing my own trembling body while

I watch and allow.

I am unable to live for another,

unable to undo words,

unable to iron out the wrinkles

of the kinks forming in the plan.

The night brings what the day allows me to hide.

The learning is only ever mine

and it can only be postponed, never avoided altogether;

now or later is  the only choice I get to make.

 

moments

10 Nov

my gut tightens from a sound

angry voices rise outside

peering out the peep hole

giving space to work things out

i’ll check for my mail later

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

sensing something’s wrong

is the start to make it right

all are welcome here

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

muscles in the jaw

set our teeth for war in cars

throw away the clock

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

corners of my eyes

wabi sabi wrinkles

I’m folding into me

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

all i see is good

always has it been –

just just –

twinkle berry

flower cactus

solo cat

its time for tea

again

need want both

20 Sep

the movement to fill the belly is a vow

at least for now

to continue on in the journey of the body

to fulfill the need

that being human

makes me have.

we play the game

we all must do the dance of chewing

and swallowing

and pleasuring in taste

but at times

it is just a chore

like bathing and peeing

like flossing and dentist tripping

part of the musts for taking care of this bod

this minivan – no  truck

I’ll look under the hood, and change the oil

get enough fuel to do the things I want to do.

I cannot hike or paddle or swim without reserves –

eat to live

live to eat

I remember those days

when going without I thought would make me faint

and now sometimes I forget,

I forget and get the signal from the gauge

hey girl, you’re riding on empty

and you got miles to go

you know…

and then at times

a taste,

a whiff even, is enough

to begin a longing

to flood the tongue with taste

and the brain – endorphins

what is this drug?

the charring, the sweet and salty?

the perfect meal

a bit like heroin, never quite measuring to that first high

but definitely worth the try –

so many roads to go down

some necessary, most by choice

I enjoy the pleasure and the denial

I am a ambidextrous consumer

I can dive into pleasure

without needing it to show up daily

and I can dive into denial

without a nagging voice of need

yet still,

a cup of tea is champagne

a basil leaf,  a boat to shangrila –

may we ever hunger for that which truly fills.

mango death grip

30 Aug

We die.

No news to anyone here,

but in all the lush and frantic

moments that make up days,

the inevitability of death lies in a sealed envelope

in the victorian desk drawer

locked with a key.

The heart knows

the time and the manner,

I suspect, and

that beating soft and tender fruit of life,

mine,

calls to the icy fingers of some immortal

to hold me in a mango death grip squeeze

each night.

This heart, I suspect,

thinks it good

that my body battles the passing of me,

in the moments of desperation for air.

My horror dreams

have me up and out of the bed,

turning on lights,

but light does not provide oxygen

and the outside summer thickness

hides oxygen in blankets of steam.

The cat wonders if he is dreaming

as I join him under the moon.

The life dream has lost its key, dear cat.

I can not go gently, just yet,

and the night is not good

who steals from me not only what I think of as me

but takes my loves and drowns them

into the depths of the sea.

At night, I am living death

as a calling to look deeper

to unlock and open the drawer –

to do whatever it takes to find out

who is the I am

who never dies

before I do again.

i miss these days already

25 Aug

seeing through to the next pages of the calendar

(as we most certainly do)

gifts us a nostalgic ache

for the things so full in today

that will surely go

away:

landscape and conversation

the food we eat together –

see me

stretched out in a queen bed with my arms flung every way

dwelling in my solitude,

while also missing so soon the extra blanket,

pillows, oxygen so ample for me right now…

I look to the popcorned ceiling

searching for a clue.

in what manner will these things go?

Your hello makes me teary for the encased goodbye within,

the fresh and grooving song becomes old before the first time through,

and august’s heat and sliding sun push heavily on toward frost –

the prophetic plague: that

within each extreme, the opposite can’t help but call for

we cannot escape the tax for taking on this life

there is ache in fulfillment,

a bitter pulse in sweet,

the smell of death in birth.

dream

1 Jun

in my dream, we are walking and talking in a strange place then we are riding a train, and talking, waiting for a meal at a large table.

Who are WE?

I am with some people I know well, though I cannot name them.  I think Don and Alison may have been there.  Maybe some more of you here.  We are talking about spiritual things.  We are pointing out the clouds in the sky next to a bridge over water to each other and  saying clever and deep things.

Suddenly, there seems to be a crash and much discomfort and death.  I am talking with someone, though I am in terrible pain.  I say, my eyeball is half ripped out, and I cannot breath.  I am gasping and my lungs and vocal cords are making a terrible, desperate noise.  I say, no words about spirit or beauty mean a thing unless they are helpful when you cannot breath and the body is in ruins.  I say, all spirit talk is only good if it can help me leave this body – help me die – when there is no grace to be had, but only pain.  How do I learn to stop breathing? Stopping the breath is bloody hard – it is a struggle – it is drowning.  Are we ready to drown?  We should talk about that instead of the pretty clouds – and then I woke with an urgency for this.  I have an urgency to practice dying upon waking that has not left, though soon, I know, I will go back to being transfixed on bird songs, flowers and clouds.  :0

%d bloggers like this: