autumn
was the last season of her life
the northwest wind carried her away
easier than gossamer
Category: Poem
o holy night
the golden light
stole her attention, as per
halted her forward motion, as per
the Sun’s set
would be the first
without Her, earthside
she took some photos, as per,
/but also, to remember that very first one/
she then acknowledged
that the Sun, Moon and Stars
herald no one’s birth, announce no one’s death
and perhaps that’s why
the Star of Bethlehem
and a midday eclipse
the first 24 hours of loss
the first night, the long night
the first sleep
sobbing or wailing into oblivion
eyes forced shut by swollen lids
eventually the mammalian body
succumbs to the exhaustion
from the metabolic expenditure of emotional agony and adrenaline
the next morning
the first sweet seconds of confusion of time and place
as the tender light or familiar sounds of daybreak
breach the senses
a suspension of forgetting
the devastation of yesterday
those must be the most ephemeral moments
in human consciousness
then a stirring
a shifting in bed
an adjustment of position
breaks the magic of sleep
the anvil of non-specific grief returns to the chest
the coils of hopelessness entwine the limbs
the throat gasps
Continue reading “the first 24 hours of loss”the last meal of a woman
the last meal that She cooked for herself
was in the late afternoon of the 18th of September the Year of Our Hearts, 2023
that same evening
She would spend the last night together alone with her only child, her son, in Their house on Adams Street
he had already stopped at Chik-fil-A
– or Quesabroso? for his dinner
he, sixteen forever, for Her, not even licensed for a year yet
She thought, then said aloud to him
“pasta. i want some pasta.”
and so She very slowly set about
choosing saucepans, boiling water,
sautéing a little ground beef with a bit of diced onion, and minced garlic from a giant container from Costco,
adding in a half jar of Rao’s Original, some dried herbs — nothing too spicy or fancy now,
cooking her favorite gluten-free rigatoni,
or was it penne, mostaccioli?
She ate, rinsed the pots, loaded and ran the dishwasher, put the combined leftovers in her fridge
and at dinner time the very next day,
She told her oldest and dearest friend about it
her friend listened, and watched Her plate, reheat, and sit down to eat those leftovers — She wanting to do all that for Herself, still
She taking the smallest and most intentional bites possible,
every delicate swallow and cough amplified in the too-big-for-two, unusually quiet house, the parade of Her friends and visitors gone until tomorrow
“i’m not supposed to drink with these meds, but lemme have just one lil’ sip of your wine”
Continue reading “the last meal of a woman”sound stage
she lacks an authorial voice
her words, written and spoken
a stream of
predictive text, parroted speech
her critical and narrative content indistinguishable from AI
except AI is more
nuanced, intuitive,
less clichéd, less shrill,
wittier /
stuck in a closed circuit, which she proudly calls her “circle”
and what he euphemistically calls “the perimeter”
regurgitation is their duo’d dialect //
yet, he parlayed
to be her favorite toy, tethered to her scratching post, center stage
and boy,
does she scratch and meow, and meow and scratch, always coughin’ up a whollotta nuthin’
she’s amplified her own monotone acoustics over his
and he doesn’t recognize his own voice
or hear his own thoughts, anymore ///
alone, only in church and in the shower
he confesses,
prays aloud
for his own deafness,
or for the blessed return
of her disinterest — what an ironic twist ////
Continue reading “sound stage”Harvest Moon, northern hemisphere, 2023
i missed the rise of the
Full Moon last night,
preoccupied in thought
hands busy in work
she missed the rise of the
Full Moon last night
preoccupied in pain
early to bed, early to bed-ridden
i say, i will witness Her tonight
waning only slightly, gibbous,
99, 98 percent
or next month,
with confidence, and guilt
i say, she won’t witness Her tonight,
or next month, or any phase
Zero percent
wondering if she ever considered the Moon,
with confidence, and guilt
the word “full” lingers on beyond the Moon’s illumination
— as relative,
in these lives of ours
the opposite of maternity
I am not nesting
for the birth of a baby
I am harboring
for the death of a friend
popular!
the path of the hylic
she had always prized
quantity over quality
with both people and money
never interrogating
the integrity or provenance of either
never asking the hard questions of herself
nor pursuing the big ones,
now,
she’s left only with errant glitter,
an impotent wand,
a cortège of pink fools,
her plated crown of paste jewels, atop her head, askew
you see, i knew that was all distraction, decoy, masked unconfidence
home, is within your Self
so, i chose to be [come] “Wicked”,
i wear my gold
in my bones,
in my blood.
Continue reading “popular!”conspiracy to kill the creator
she sips a glass
of wine
and admits, agrees
she too, doesn’t want to be
on this prison planet
under these archons,
guided and insulated by sadistic angels,
both, in servitude to the demiurge
no escaping it, Them
even in Bucolia
she’s still plagued by the 24-hour news cycle,
contemplation that often veers off into nihilism,
and, by bouts of suicidal ideation
— but to go back around, back to another false birth in this Samsara, to start over? — no thanks //
perhaps crying in the wilderness, then.
where is that, exactly?
the mountains, buttes and canyons also betray us — those ancient Watchers, the petroglyphs warned us of
— and of shapeshifters cloaked in feathers, fur and scales ///
monarch chrysalis: endogenous alchemy
I am witness to and aspirant of alchemy
imaginal cells metamorphose en pupa
Monarch [Danaus plexippus] chrysalis on plantain lily [Hosta plantiginea] stem bract.
"Crave wisdom of God, the sense to understand,
Else meddle not herewith, nor take it in hand.
For it will cost thee much wordly wealth;
But trust not to other, but do it thyself.
Learn, therefore, first to cleanse, purify and sublime,
To dissolve, congeal, distill and, sometime
To conjoin and separate, and how to do all,
That when you think to rise, thou do not fall,
Trust to thyself and not to another;
I can say no more to thee if thou were my brother."
- Simon Forman 1597
“alchemy exists to transform mortals from a state of suffering to enlightenment”
endogenous alchemy is the only possible panacea for humanity — as individuals, as families, as communities, as a civilization — and for all we have wrought upon our fellow non-human Earthlings and upon Earth, herself
Continue reading “monarch chrysalis: endogenous alchemy”no matter what situations or circumstance we face, we have an escape route: transforming our own mind.
– S. Rinpoche
repair of the heart | kintsugi
version i
a vessel
of perpetual sustenance
fumbled by graceless hands of men
those breaks that once disfigured her
now sealed
with aurum scars instead
premeditated mourning
i am in premeditative mourning
desperate to get it
over and done with
before she’s dead
i choke on the dream scene, the prognosis and the grand scheme / ever-present in my throat /
and weep
then, a memory of us wedges in
i cry a smile, and smile a cry
i think
this, is all, too much
i can’t do this.
though,
she is the one doing it
with her dignity, her calm, her reserve, she’s had too much practice, she’s well-traveled on this terrain
these consecutive life sentences, handed out
Continue reading “premeditated mourning”how
how?
how do you fall in love with the same Sun, the same trees, the same colors, the same Moon, the same people
every single day?
you just do.
they
impel,
compel
you.
the evening hours
i’m on the phone with her
i listen,
attentive to both the mundanity and gravity
of her daily tales and decadal recollections
i wait for the right words, the right pause to speak, which sometimes never comes/
she is always dilated, crowning or birthing new and old pain
but is abundantly fertile with ideas and pregnant with laughter too
i am a patient doula, never a midwife.
and suddenly, an hour, or more, is gone
dicing and mincing my holy quarternity, my mirepoix, my sofrito — to music or a lecture / sauté, season, blanche, stew, cook, boil, sear, bake, toss, assemble, plate, serve, eat, scrape, scrub, wash, dry, shelve, pack, store, clean and compost.
and suddenly, two — or more hours, are gone
i rush to the stoop hoping i haven’t missed the sweet spot between sunset and twilight/
i watch for the brown bats, i know they come from the west — from the bluff
their roost in remnant shagbark hickory,
and in hollows, i think about how there is no old growth left — hickory, beech, maple, oak, pine — once in primeval abundance,
hell, there are hardly even any old barns or attics left anymore — everyone wants a kennebunkport or grand beach compound, a summer, second or third home/
i am always buoyed at the bats’ arrival, entranced by their acrobatics, they are a living barometer: they’re still alive, still here – in spite of it, all.
and suddenly, an hour is gone
a spider weaves
a web between black walnut leaves
in the very last of light
my obsessive, awed witness of their movements
their silken threads, their physics, their engineering, their architecture
and suddenly, the hour, and light is gone
back on the stoop
i think about
who and what i Am
what i have
what i’ve lost
who i love
what’s past
what’s to come
what i’ll die for, who i’ll die for
what i live for, who i live for
i follow the thread of the patchwork of my quilted life
backward and forward til i reach the beautiful dark fabric of the universe, the alpha and omega
i take the ends, and fold it, and fold it again
i put it in my basket to carry inside and upstairs to my bedroom to envelope me.
the hours are nearly gone
The Murder of an August Meadow
full bloom,
milkweed, goldenrod, chicory,
aster,
thistle or teasel — i don’t know
they’re 7, 8, 9, feet tall
their leaf cups full of collected dew, or rain
the meadow is just all
give give give.
in fifteen minutes,
give or take,
all, gone
beneath a tractor blade
take, take, take,
take.
Continue reading “The Murder of an August Meadow”
