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

Stay At Home, Mom

poetry

Mandarin Oranges break into beads that thread through the carpet I walk on. An old grape tomato, the cat’s new toy splatters – on the hall wall I wander down for more milk – that will spit itself onto the suede couch I plop my peanut butter jelly ass on. Water in the sink, on the floor, hugs the rug and runs into the side of the tub, the toilet I’m in need of. A toy car beneath the sheets of my bed – I yearn for an active dream – drives me to a days blacked out end. Awakened by whine for more games, more play – is the radio station that cries for my dancing. A coffee cup already cold, spoiled creamer – gets the dishes done, the garbage outdoors, and the breakfast made from a toaster. No arpon with flowers or heels that click, just my hair in a knot, some old stained socks decorated in crumbs and butter. Can’t wait to have kids, be a stay at home mom, and go mad walking through a circular door of unclean paths in need of maiding.