nedful things

I haven't been feeling very well, feverish in fact.  In my febrile state, I decided to write a sonnet, a Shakespearean sonnet.  Well, more like re-write a Shakespearean sonnet.  This one.  I am too sick to finish it.

In my delerium, I am blogging it.  Please forgive me.

On sum'otha day, may I call you, June?
My homies tell me that you ain't that hot
Would I blow your mind if I speak too soon?
Rent falls due and you would stay, but cannot.

Eyes that once were steely purpose
Now tearful, unfocused by age and care,
And hands once strong and useful
To their work, now wring bony fingers
One over another, or brush at
The straying of white cotton wool.
A nurse, officially busy, hurries
Through mazes of chairs and her
White-haired duties and has not time
To stop and attend to the stories
Of each and every life that once lived
Somewhere on foot and ran past age
In its youthful indifference.
She doesn't hear the frail voice,
Struggling with conscience and mind
"Who pays my bill?" it calls out and
"Do you know?" From every pounding beat
Of steps she inquires, eager to find
An answer fit for eyes of purpose.
And hands that working a trade still,
Furiously wring out upon the tray
Then cover eyes, clouded and red-rimmed
As she cries "Who pays my bill?"

Back when Summer mornings kissed my face
with a child's lips, soft and unlined,
history unwritten
They stretched themselves out
like promises along
the track of the Boston & Maine
shaking me from my bed
with freighted rumblings
We ran ahead of it, our childish laughter
mocked its plodding
our youthful agility a gift we took as a promise
history unwritten

back when afternoons baked summer
ochre into our skin and we colored
our dreams with the infinity laid before us
history unwritten
our music cicada's chainsaw
cutting through the trees
the call answered
by the carpenter's hewing buzz
when uncertainty was weighted only
on the end of a plank
our sawhorse mount

when evening held back as long
as the sun could be cajoled to shine
and when it fell was light upon our minds
no fearful thing lived in that night
the stars, re-lit by unseen hand
burned holes in its curtain
and if one dashed across the sky
it carried our happily everafters
in its lightning wake
history unwritten

the tracks of smooth and seamless days
the maps of our childhood's path
disappear into jungles untended
erasing ties to days of abandon
and trains move swiftly on new tracks
as youth gives way
to caution, dreams to schedules,
as age takes the pen
racing the lines down the page
before history writes the end

For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the dry? Luke 23:31


amongst green brethren      
stands one dry, naked
and ashamed to bare
brittle arms to the wind,
sing
-ing creaks
plead
-ing but
no spring now
will cover, and now-dead
fingers in the earth
gather no
-thing
and no
-thing leaks
from wounds made by
or names of
those who once
loved in a green tree.

He noticed the creature a long time before he made his plan to capture it.  At first, he was intrigued by its quiet movements, the unobtrusive way it lived within the woodwork, coming out only when it felt safe and unobserved. Its nocturnal excurions into his world fascinated him, there was a beauty in its fear as its cautious eyes probed the darkness.  He took a certain pleasure in crouching in the dark corner, still and undetected by the creature.  Night after night he sat in silent observation, noting its movements, and its timid exploration.

He didn't know quite when the idea to capture it came to him.  It seemed to slip into his mind the way the moonlight slipped through the slats in the blind in the window over the sink. It lay across the path of the creature, forcing it at times to walk through an illuminating slice, a danger to its stealth.  He waited for those moments, and his fascination with the creature's habits continued to grow.

He began slowly.  He marked paths across the floor with tidbits and crumbs.  A few at first to see if the creature would follow.  He was pleased that it seemed interested in what he had left there, and he manoeuvered its path towards the light a little more each evening, drawing the creature closer to his hiding place with every seeding.  The first time he lured the creature close enough to see him, he had inadvertently moved too quickly and sent it skittering off back into its hiding place and it did not return that evening.  He began again and painstakingly.  It may have been a few weeks or longer, he did not know, that he sat in that dark corner watching the creature's approach; never moving, until its confidence in the safety of his presence was won.

He was content to sit alone in the dark hours and wait for it to emerge.  He increased the light reaching his corner by tiny amounts over a long period of time.  He did not do this for the benefit of the creature, whose eyes perceived all it needed to know in the blackness and who understood without seeing, the dangers inherent in this human domain. The creature was beautiful in the complexity of its interactions, the simplicity of its acceptance of him.  He simply wanted to watch it and see that it could learn to trust him.  For some reason it was this trust that drove him forward in his plan. It was this trust he had purposely engendered that held him prisoner to the creature and he must break free.

The trap was easily set.  A few of the usual and expected tasties placed in a path that led to it. He placed the trap near him, where it was dimly illuminated.  He didn't even know why he was doing it. The power? The control? Whatever it was it was exhilarating.  A sliver of moonlight crept across the floor and glinted off the steel sprung gate.  The bait set, he sat and waited.

 His breath came in ragged intervals and he tried to regulate the pounding in his chest, the anticipation collected on his face in beads of cold sweat and dripped into his eyes; the salty drops stung and a knife-like pain went through his chest at the moment just before it was too late.

The creature emerged near midnight. The device was a new item, an addition to its usual surroundings but the bait was familiar and enticing. A tentative step towards it and no danger was sensed.  A certain boldness had been birthed in the creature, going against its natural inclinations.  He had given it confidence in his presence that was contrary to its instinct, anathema to survival.  It took an easy step to the expectation created in it and a delicate foot on the trigger tripped the spring.  The blow was crushing in intensity, caught at the neck, yet alive, it struggled.  

He was transfixed at first by the desperation in its eyes, the futility of its battle to live.  There was a exquisite beauty in its expiration.  He had a brief desire to free it, but he knew it would be in vain. He could not return its life to it.  Then waiting was ended, the deed done and suddenly, the sight of his destruction filled him with revulsion; the gruesome portrait of death by his hands. He  picked it up and threw the mouse, still bound in the trap, into the trash bin where its pleading eyes could not haunt him.

Understanding your children is a life-long process and a lot of hard work. Now, I don't mean understanding them in the sense of getting to know them as individuals or recognizing their inner motivations and drives.  I just mean that kids talk funny.

When the Girl was young, she had a difficult time enunciating words due to a hearing deficit that kept her from clearly discerning all the sounds.  Often words were mostly vowel vocalizations without many consonants, without the essential beginning or ending of a word so that all blended together into a string of lovely music without meaning.  In essence, she spoke Chinese.

But the Boy is a different story.  His mispronunciations are the usual ones common to his age, and they smooth over and are replaced almost daily with more correct sounds and consonants.  The problem I have with him is that once he decides upon a word, he is unlikely to change his mind about it.  The word is just what he says it is and nothing else.  Therefore, I still cannot buy him a hamburger, it must be a hangaburger.

A couple of weeks ago I picked him up at preschool and on our way out the door he told me "Mom, I want to play with attractive forms".  I was pretty sure I heard that incorrectly so I asked him to repeat it.  And he did.  I decided:  well forms are like shapes, this must be some learning game he played at school.

A few days later he mentioned them again.  "Mom, I want to get the Attractive Forms video".

This was a little more worrisome.  A video.  A boy.  A five year old boy but a boy nevertheless, and a video called Attractive Forms.  I was confused but concerned.

Over the weekend we visited the local video store where we regularly rent video games for his Game Cube. We have tried nearly all the age appropriate (or at least, not too gory) games available and suddenly he saw exactly what he wanted.

"Mom. I found it! The Attractive Forms game!"

We rented it.  He played it.  He was disappointed and found it a little scary.  I was only too happy to agree with him.  "Yes, son, attractive forms are scary, stay away from them".

He insisted we return it early and get another game he would like better.

So off we went to the video store to look for another game.  In the end we got Polar Express and Star Wars and returned "The Fantastic Four".


For more articles like this see these links:
S'no Day like a Snow Day
The Phone Rang Predictably
Every Child Needs a Pet

These are not real poems
They are only the thoughts
That won't be silenced

They are the cries that escape
They slip through keyholes
In the doors of careful words

I know this is not what you feel
This pain belongs only to me
It groans in the face of your contentment

The friends, retired to their own spaces
and the conversations that
inhabited the empty places,
were all tucked in for the night
like children past a bedtime.

They left holes in the evening
through which she fell,
and an awkward emptiness
she could not fill.

Seconds collected like tears
in the well of an eyelid.
They hung heavy yet refused
to drop into the minutes
that lead to anticipated hours;

or in falling, bless a cheek
by raining down the honest gifts
of a heart that found it no hardship,
no burden nor assault to pride,
to exalt that which it cherished.

While running a few errands today, I passed a lemonade stand.  Some neighborhood kids had set up shop on a nearby street and were hawking their wares to passersby with entrepreneurial passion. One boy held a brightly colored handmade sign and two girls seemed to be in charge of supplying big smiles and waves for each passing vehicle.  It was on the other side of the street so I thought briefly "aww, wish I could stop" and kept going.  A little while later I was passing by again, on the right side of the street this time but I continued on past anyway. The faces on these kids, so eager and expectant caused a little nagging voice in my head to chide "you should have stopped".  When my travels took me by a third time, guilt took over and I stopped to purchase some lemonade, even though neither I nor my children wanted any.  I sent the Girl over with a dollar bill, told her to buy one cup (the going rate was twenty-five cents a cup) and tell them to keep the change.  Turned out it was a cup of somewhat warm iced tea, but no matter.  I just felt an urge to support their enthusiasm.

It reminded me of the things we did when I was a kid, the lemonade stands, the plays we organized in the neighbor's barn and the makeshift parades we put on for very small audiences.  It also reminded me of the time we held a bazaar.  I think it may have been my idea to hold a bazaar, but it isn't important. I got a lot of strange ideas and even stranger was the fact that everyone went along with them.  Once I found an old fringed bedspread, cut off the end of it and tied it around my waist like a fringed skirt.  I found some clothesline rope and we all made lassos.  For the whole summer we went about as cowboys and cowgirls twirling our lassos;  I in my fringed cowgirl skirt taking the lead.  Once we strayed into a different neighborhood and the kids there did not think we were as cool as we obviously thought we were.  Strange.

Anyway, the bazaar kept us busy for weeks, making items for sale out of bleach bottles and scraps of wood and fabric.  The items were of the sort that are only marketable to parents and friends of course, there is not much demand for piggy banks made out of Clorox bottles but we were sure that our little endeavour was going to make us all rich. The day finally came, our customers came and at the end of it a tally of the till was taken.  It was then that the oldest girl of our group decided that there was just enough money to buy an ice cream from the ice cream truck for everyone in the neighborhood, even those that had not been part of the bazaar.

 I objected strenuously at the thought of my hard-earned profit being squandered on an ice cream spree and insisted on keeping my share of the take.  But as she gave everyone a vote, even those who were not participants, I lost by a wide margin.  In the end she handed me a nickel, the cost of an ice cream way back then. I think that was when I first realized I was a capitalist.

There is really no point to this, except to say that I am glad I stopped at that lemonade stand.  Today there are some kids who have a little change in their pockets and a sense of accomplishment.  I am now going to make a vow to stop at every lemonade stand I see, no matter how busy or late I am running. The dreams of children, however small, are worth my time.

I feel your weariness
But I cannot speak my own
I would lie next to you
My fingers gently taking
the strands of your unease
and brushing them from your brow
Place this love between you
and the world, refusing it entrance

My mouth is a secret place
and in its dark recesses I would hide
the unsounded fears my lips
collect as they sweep over yours
They would return to you
things deep and unavowed
I would tell you of desire
But your words hold up hands
to halt my confession

My heart thus unemployed
Steps into the only place it may fit
And loves you with words unfitting
to my passion

If you asked
I would lie across a sea of adversaries
so that you might step over
This is my confession
I love you more than my happiness

The AC had been out for only twenty minutes but already the air in the office was stiff and unmoving.  The sudden and violent lightning storm and its accompanying wind had knocked out the power to the building.  One hundred and fifteen employees, suddenly stripped of phones and computers, gathered at the windows to watch the storms or wandered through the aisles, joining this or that one of dozens of conversations, all buzzing with a single theme:  Do you think they will send us home? Those at the windows marveled over the foolhardy denizens of other offices, walking or running to their cars holding cellphones, inviting a sudden conduction.  More than a few giggled wickedly over the shiny new BMW convertible, left with its top down as the wind-driven rain pummeled and soaked its pristine interior.

Amy felt the burden of the air increase as it grew heavier.

She gave up trying to send a text message on her cell phone. There didn't seem to be a signal, maybe as a result of the storm. The ice in her coffee had by now completely melted; sipping it gave no real pleasure or cooling effect.  She made her way to the bathrooms and by the faint illumination of the emergency lights, splashed a little cold water on her face, relieving some of the effects of the rapidly rising temperature on the fifth floor.  It felt so good in fact, she continued dousing herself with cool water from the sink until her head was thoroughly wet and water dripped from her hair; the mirror streaked with little rivulets and a circle of tiny puddles forming a boundary around her feet. She went back to her desk, feeling the lack of the electric fan intensely, needing something to cool her body as the heat zapped her strength.  Finally, she approached her supervisor.

"When it gets too hot, I can't breathe" she said.

"Neither can I", was the off-handed reply.  Her supervisor hadn't understood. She tried again.

"No, I mean when it gets hot, I can't move my diaphragm", she explained.  "If it gets too hot, I will have trouble with five flights of stairs". The admission both embarrassed and scared her.

 It was all so much easier when she could blame it on Walmart.  It always seemed to be at the end of a Walmart shopping trip that she found herself sitting in the car, weak and feeling like a dishrag, finding herself breathing with a determined effort and yet having no difficulty with or obstruction in her lungs.  Everything seemed like an effort then, even sitting up and her only thoughts were of iced coffee and cool air.  She blamed the long lines and insufficient air conditioning at Walmart for making her so tired.  But now she knew why it happened, and ever since the doctor had explained the effects of the lesion on her spinal cord that had been revealed by the MRI, she had noticed the episodes more often.  Was it because she aware of them now? Had  they always occurred this frequently?  Or did they happen more frequently now?  She realized that they could have gone on for years this way and she could have happily and innocently blamed Walmart.  Why did the doctors always have to steal your innocence?  Why did simply knowing about something make it seem so much worse?

    Suddenly, she felt stupid and hysterical. She wasn't going to stop breathing, where did that come from?  She had never stopped breathing before.  It was all the focus that they had put on her condition, all the stress and emotional upheaval in her life, it all came down on her and panic had set in.

"Nevermind, I'm fine", she mumbled.  She was about to return to her desk, to sit and wait out the clock as it ticked down to closing time when the manager came through to announce that everyone could go.

The stairs were ill-lit with tiny lamps only every other landing and in between the darkness overwhelmed her efforts to watch her feet as she tried to ensure each landed squarely on a step and did not miss.  But the temperature fell with each floor closer to the ground and she found it all to be no great task.  Once she had reached her car and set the air conditioning to high, she relaxed and some of the intensity of her anxiety abated.

As she took her unexpected freedom before she had to pick up children, she lit a cigarette and turned the car in the direction of the coffee shop, to score an iced coffee and a few minutes of relaxation before the evening's work of dinner and dishes and motherhood began.  Pulling into the parking lot, she stubbed out the butt and laughed.  If I ever do stop breathing, she thought, at least they won't be able to say it was because I smoked.

  "Maybe I can still blame it on Walmart", she muttered as she pulled open the glass door. The elderly woman exiting looked at her in amusement and said "Might as well dear, they blame Walmart for everything these days".

"Yes, they do", Amy chuckled and agreed heartily.  "Yes, they do".

Bitter days arise ahead
of me and wait in
             anticipation
with an accusing finger
I swallow their emptiness

I fill my bowl with the echoes
of nights passed into silence
I become emptier still

This is just to say
that when I fear myself
I want to tap those veins
your pain to equal mine

I don't think that I can
stand up to my own inclinations

It is like a scalpel
this word, and cleanly
with an implication
separates to the bone

the flesh and soft innards
on the market can save you
I hand you the knife willingly

But see how your hand trembles
only I can spill my blood

I have gutted myself
and left the bones in
your barren places
where once flowed a river
now dry beds,
valleys where no water is found
and no man walks

The life in the marrow now dry
you grind me to dust

Morning sits before me
empty of promise
The remains swept away
as crumbs that fell when
your mouth was too full

I disintegrate into arguments
and collapse upon my own foundations

I fill my bowl with the dust
of days that passed without regret
but return as bitter echoes

I am taken with each wind
Scattered by my own hand