Henry’s Healing

poetry

The damp, cool relief I felt leaning against his stone-cold-frame at high noon mid August. The sun that laid prisms on the rugs down the halls through stained glass windows- gave warmth on a frost-bitten February morning. I felt my depression ease, his purpose take place within my own mental state.

He taught me to keep aware.

Hugged by his spiraling staircases, I felt secure within his mass. Boarded by his twelve-foot-doors, fourteen-foot-windows, eighteen-foot-ceilings. Comforted by his stance exuding confidence that I envied. Proud of his intent- built for royalty – built for the “insane” actually in 1872; a time more kindly engineering than today.

He taught me to keep humble.

The smell of freshly baked peanut-butter-jelly crumb cake in his kitchens. Burgers on plates the size of your face- shoved into my face left me swollen and sleepy with an irregular heartbeat for days. The bar’s aroma wafted black licorice, ginger and mint, and over-served me like a gluttonous Queen.

He taught me to keep generous.

The many rotating faces of erratic emotion or internal dread- already known or accidentally bumped into to befriend, comfort, or confront day-to-day. He held my hand through the many anxieties and animosities of social interaction and urged me to seek sincerity and authenticity instead.

He taught me to keep compassionate.

Navigating him became a subsequent flow of repetitive turns, bends, and motion. I became fluent in his language- his map- his less traveled stairwells and doors- all while making sure not to trip into an armoire or beam- one of his many giant legs. Running pillows to the western corridor while I’d realize the broom I needed for another wing – a mile long dart to complete- was waiting.

He taught me to keep patient.

Man is Dead

poetry

Charleston Church Shooting is blaring on my TV. On my radio and through my phone’s screen.

What is the meaning? When a heartless bias stops a loaded chest from rising, another rise should be happening instead.

When I heard what happened I thought, “of course again this has happened.” In my country something has happened. Something inside me has horribly happened.

I’ve grown numb. Where is the blow to my chest that this news should deliver? Unmoved by the earth shattering broadcast, my knees do not buckle, hands do not shake, my conscious does not break. “This world is beyond reason.” An acceptance I’ve been carrying like

Hope sewn on a sleeve I used to boast proudly now washed off like a tattoo’d thumb, taken from me when I was

sleeping the American dream lost in a Sunoco Casino and my patience? A desert run dry from rain-less nights needed to water it’s kind-hearted intentions. A revelation so to speak up for mothers grieving the loss of their child, hands and feet and heart like my own gone because of something so irrelevant like

color.

No, I can’t sit down and let the world my children grow up in be flooded with hate, crime, and hate-crime then keep saying, “We’re doomed so why must I bother?”

It was Nietzsche who once said the famous phrase, “God is dead.” but not for the reasons we think. The phrase was not a winning statement but, a heartbreaking murder of greatness. We killed the almighty argument to provide some sort of comfortable, false ease.

And so what would Nietzsche think- if he never died from the wretched green -would he state, “Man is dead.” just the same?

June 2015

Please Excuse My Time In Use

poetry

Please excuse my lack of calls. I think of you often and I miss you as well.
Please excuse my unanswered text.

The response was lost but, not the words left still ringing in my head as I cash out a guest with a wom-wom, “Thank you” I think left my lips that also left you to feel dismissed. I’m sorry.

Please excuse my absence at the party. I wanted to be there but again, priorities. Not saying you’re not a priority. My life in double negatives, I begin to feel sorry.

My practice in meditation diminished. Longing for a future that we give a cheeky kiss, sit down over coffee or tea or a beer and hopefully my mind won’t start wandering about things I haven’t held dear or who else is left I’ve shunned to sit down with over coffee. I’m sorry.

Please excuse my self absorbed state where I cancelled our week-in-advanced date. I wanted breadsticks while we waited just absorbing. Please excuse the next week that comes. Or the next month, four packs of fresh breath gum I’ve been giving to strangers touring.

Please excuse me of the mess. Of my house or of my dress. I turned the iron on but it went again unused this morning. My hair was giving me a day and two little boys that need me most, well… I am first their host and for that I’m not sorry.

The problem with me is my list of many things…to do and things dead before I’m dead to get ahead. Please excuse me while my time is taken. I’m sorry.

saturday mornIng.

poetry

I passed out at ten O’Clock last night. I woke up well rested in a gloomy living room so quiet I heard the furnace tick. 

I didn’t snooze an alarm. I didn’t run for a shower. I didn’t pack a diaper bag or a lunch.  I didnt rush to find someone’s homework (we still have to do). I didn’t change a landslide diaper that sometimes requires a bath while I’m putting on my eyelids. 

I didn’t forget the check for school pictures, the signed permission slip for field trip,the payment for daycare, the carseat for grandma, or a blanket for child…

I didn’t move.

I waited until I was able and not a second sooner, then made a pot of coffee (ten beautiful cups of it). I openned the curtains, loaded the dishwasher, poured a cup of Brita-Joe and added 5lbs of mocha creamer just because it made me happy. 

I sat down at the table, read some articles and listened for the thuds above me (first a jolt, then a leg out of bed, and then two feet pounding across the ceiling). I hear my three year old slam porcelain against porcelain and I laugh at the next 18 years of my life. I hear a baby cry and a dad get out of bed. 

I just sit here waiting like Santa’s bringing me presents on Christmas. I have a Saturday morning.

A Train of Mindful Feedings in February

poetry, short stories

On a slow gliding torpedo barrelling down the Hudson, torward big city rumble – traveling alone. Riding a bit shaky, bumping off steel frames, strangers wear their grins.

Snow blanketing fields outside my window – lay peacefully untouched in the rarely seen plains of New York’s rural mass – impoverished back allies of forgotten sheds. A town’s mutated gene with a broken window, three rundown cars, some cluttered lawn mowers all meant for fixing – covered in angelic, glittering white.

The sun, a blazing ball of gold on Friday morning –bounces through skinny, sleeping trees and if I close my eyes, creates anxiety -A flashing red and white dance party –eyes widen relief – the tracks kicking up white dust below.

Friday. Our lucky American’s last laboring frenzy. Counting down the hours before a happy 5-9. “another night running late” – slamming cinnamon poison under mint rubber – feeling no shame, feet swell, legs warm – carrying up into your face flushing hot with reward.

On a train, with myself – some funky beats to block out talk – how nice not to talk – and watch – watch the sun rave with birch and pine until a massive willow who stands like wisdom – turns our fire briefly to night in a glimpse – and is gone.

The coldest month our north has seen in quite some time – not made for people’s hands to peddle or ponder – a femme fatal murderous winter –choking lungs into frozen ice boxes that hold no breath – she’s tallied tall numbers – our taker – and yet this train is full of souls in route to another frostbitten building holding heat – proving yet again, life demands no stopping.

But how the trees dance – how the snow swings in bouts of wind that blow like cotton softly – how the sun creates hope brighter than the white that blinds me – how the untouched plains remind me – beyond my stinging phalanges and nose – what our world is without my being.

Flabby Arms Fly

poetry

A Greek Goddess is now an ancient artifact.

You can’t truly walk a life in vain worried about the possibility of veins, can you?

I find it novel, a woman with indentation, crease and curve looking like a life having lived.

A matriarch of ten grows a garden – her hands stiff, scarred and arthritic – makes some heaven out of soup bowls -and keeps a happy family fat.

Real women who fight their days without fear

wave their flabby arms like wings

never missing the chance to crease a laugh line.

That’s an admiration, not an artifact.