Impossible
We think we know
what will come
and then
something unheard
or unthought
or never experienced
plummets us
out of our minds
and into our small bodies
This human wear is wearying
and humbling
because just when we think
we are powerful
life fells us with a bold ask
to see more deeply
to feel more fully
to be more than we ever thought
impossible
Past Any Season
Autumn is everything-colored
except black and white,
magenta, dark purple,
orange and red and gold,
every shade ever seen in gardens
If we were leaves
would we love each other
far past youthful green
into the fallen months
of rusty brown?
Would we remember each other
long after we lay
on mossy ground,
slowly darkening
into earth again?
Every autumn I picture you
playing in the fallen leaf piles,
throwing them sky high
and laughing
past any season
Not Broken
I’ve heard therapists say it about their clients, friends say it about their friends, casual acquaintances mention it regarding someone who’s going through a hard time. And every time I hear, “He’s broken, she’s broken, they’re broken,” I wince. Why? Because broken is a label that dehumanizes, that treats people as if they are machines. Every time I hear this phrase, I picture a person broken down by the side of the road with others walking by glad that it’s not them. And yes, there is a patronizing quality in, “She’s broken,” as if the person saying it is better, more whole, not as prone to the dings and pains of being human.
Being “broken,” implies that we need fixing, usually by something or someone else. And we all do need help sometimes. But if you go out there and break a leg, usually the doctor puts it in a cast, recommends rest and elevation, and tells you it will heal in about six weeks. Your leg may be broken, but no one suggests that you are. We humans have this amazing innate ability to heal, given the right support, education, and encouragement.
Being broken also implies that something doesn’t work, that you don’t work, and in a capitalist society, not working is the ultimate sin. We categorize people by whether they have a “good job,” or not, usually one that pays well, rather than one that brings joy and a sense of service and purpose. People who are not working for money at all, like stay-at-home parents, are considered less powerful in this society. If your life is “not working,” if you are unable to conform, you are considered less valuable as a human being.
Labeling someone, “broken,” puts them in a category of “the other,” and it’s a lot easier to ignore, dismiss, and incarcerate “broken others.” So, no, you’re not broken. You may be going through utter hell, you may have scars from physical injury, emotional trauma, or be grieving the fate of mankind, but you’re not broken, you’re human.
Your Metal
Test your metal,
let it sing to you
under the tap tap hammer
of everyday life
The instrument of air
will play tunes
upon that windchime
of yours
Enough fire will form
any tool you’ll ever need
to dig or till,
sew or bejewel
Your metal will serve you well
as weapons sing
through the air
in fierce metallic cries
Your metal-
perfectly balanced
between life and death,
love and loss
Someday,
every bit of your metal
will fall down
into earth’s veins again
Death, that metallurgist,
will render you
forge ready
once more
And
who knows what
you will then
become?
Five Minutes
In five minutes
you can change your mind
or your life,
write a poem,
end a relationship,
answer the phone,
drink a cup of coffee,
win a prize,
count three hundred seconds,
forgive yourself or another,
laugh uproariously,
listen carefully,
quit a job.
In five minutes
you can change your mind
or your life,
stand up to injustice
start a relationship,
give a speech,
read a book,
donate to a cause,
start a new job,
appreciate yourself or another,
weep many tears,
help a stranger.
In five minutes
you can change your life
or not.
Feast of Stars
Through the rocky crags
we can see a whole feast of stars
laid out against the sky
in an infinite banquet
of sound
That kind of music
only comes in the night
when the last crescendo of day
fades into dark
with a savoring pause
The moon rises,
singing her light arias,
while the stars dance
sweetly with the sky
and the earth smiles in wonder
It is then that our minds remember
ourselves, each other,
and the bountiful concert
that no human instrument
ever played so well
Neck
This long column holds
up a head full of brains,
ideas, imagination,
the power of remembrance,
a scull clothed in flesh, nerves, and skin,
and openings orbiting
random thoughts
This tube of sound and swallow
constricts around sorrow,
gulps past the bit of apple
Adam once ate
but blamed on Eve,
and sings life
one note at a time
This gusty windpipe
develops from conception
right from the heart
to nod, bend, and swivel,
to express self,
sense, nonsense,
and sometimes silence
This long slender holder
of every flowering mind
often grows tired
of lifting up
the whole human
world, one small brain
at a time
Travel
If you travel past the fallen sunset
into the blue heaven
of not knowing what
lies ahead,
you may find music there
and a moving still life
painted by fate in broad strokes
with marvelous detail
that changes
the closer you arrive
If you travel beyond the trees
rooted in every weather
and follow
the curved trunk up
into the branching future,
you may find home there,
where liberty
nests
at the top of the highest reach
of any living creature
If you travel beyond the death
of dreams, and loves
and wishes,
you may find a gift there
waiting for you
not to be opened
only held
and known
and accepted,
wrappings and all
Transitions
When I was young, I had a hard time switching from a creative dreamy state to a linear, homework mode, and vice versa. I needed quite a bit of transition time between different kinds of tasks. Reading books helped calm down my brain and make the shift back and forth easier. Certain times of the day, like morning, were easier for me to focus my mind on left brain activities like math, and I loved having unscheduled hours from late afternoon into nighttime in which to ponder and create.
After learning to write analytical essays in 9th grade, it became more difficult for me to write creatively. My head actually hurt trying to make myself conform to school work. I got the same kinds of headaches in college while moving between right to left brain activities and back. Years later, a woman hooked me up to a biofeedback machine. Apparently, I spend a great deal of time in dreamy states of mind similar to small children between the ages of three and five, which explained a lot.
As an adult, I still need transition time between right and left-brain activities. While doing bookkeeping for example, I put music on and start in the morning. For right-brained activities like art, I start later in the evening after the mundane tasks are finished. It remains difficult for me to shift from doing art to linear activities, for example, but after left brain activities, right brain ones seem like I escaped from jail and made a break for freedom. It is important for creative folks to figure out how to transition back and forth between such different kinds of tasks effectively.
Since I’m self-employed, I am able to establish my own hours and have a lot of freedom to organize my day in the way in which my brain works best. When I tried the traditional, 40 hour per week job, of which I lasted exactly three years out of my entire life, I experienced increased ill health, not to mention frustration creatively.
Many of our societal structures work well for people who can make their brains operate a certain way. But for those who cannot, it is awful. They may be the artists, writers, musicians, and creative folks that don’t conform, not because they don’t want to, but because they can’t. Some may call it a lifestyle choice, but for many creative types, it’s the only way their brains function properly. Unfortunately, this isn’t a friendly society for nonconformist brains. Or as a woman from another country told me, “Your society is soul crushing for artists.”Continue reading
No-fig Days
Some days
are no-fig days,
no fat fruit
plumply waiting
to be picked
No sweetness
hanging
lushly among the leaves,
the pulp juicy
around the seeds
No surprises
beckoning in the garden
to delight the eyes
and pique
the palate
Some days
are no-fig days,
undistinguished
from other ordinary days
except by anticipation
Of fig days,
full of flavor and devourings
and the glory of nature
bearing and sharing
most fruitfully