2B1

None was so holy as this
Peering through the pane of the Parish house
He prayed for men many hours
seeking
to be one
with the Lord

———————-

None was so holey as this,
Pain piercing through as he perished. How
he was the prey of man, many, ours
“Did you see – King?
to be won…
withered, Oh, Lord!”

I was born of a Sisterhood
that holds me to the
ground
That causes me to open
my hands, palms down
fingers reaching out at
my hips like I’m reaching
Into the earth, the rich
dark earth
Here
planted together
Here
holding-each-other-up

Briskly Winter said to Spring,
“Hey, listen, one more thing,
I know April’s your big reveal
But maybe we can strike a deal.
By now I’m usually on my way,
Storing up my cold and grey,
I rest up in the stratosphere
Then head to the Southern Hemisphere.
But this year I would love to stay.
I promise I’ll be out by May.
You know they love me in December
Singing ‘Let it Snow!’ – Oh I remember
Their joy to find on Christmas Day
I’d sent my snowflakes out to play.
I’m dreaming of white Easter thrills,
Perhaps some frosted daffodils.”

Then Spring in graceful song replied,
“Ok Sir Winter, I’ll abide
You may let your cold winds blow
I’ll even let you send your snow
But be warned that you will find
Humans have a fickle mind
White January hills are fun,
But by mid-March most everyone
Has tucked away their skis and sleds.
They’re cleaning out their garden sheds.
So I’ll hold back my balmy breezes
Till May when your cold reign unfreezes
And then you must be out the door –
Not even one small snowflake more.
With Fall you can negotiate
The next time they accumulate.”

“Oh and Winter, one last thing –
Next February when hearts sing
Of roses red and love so true
I’d like perhaps a week or two.”

I actually wrote this poem on April 10th, 2018. Uncanny that it somewhat fits today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, exactly a year later. I was too flabbergasted that my poem from yesterday was featured to write something new today!

Things that Pull Asunder
When one is unhappy about one’s situation and yet fails to take steps to improve it. When honesty is met with refusal or blame. When one attempts to hide a thing that is obvious. Unopened mail and overflowing garbage cans. When one denies a gift, or the fulfillment of a need out of pride and anger. When a plea for help is misinterpreted as a selfish demand or perhaps a sign of weakness. When all of the dishes have been washed and the dirty water remains in the sink. When tenderness is refused. Hours spent in silence.

Things that Bind
Walks at the park on the first warm spring day with a small child skipping along in delight. The warm, golden smell of yellow rice, beans with sautéed sweet onions, and paneer with spiced greens that fills one’s nose when walking in the door after an exhausting day. When weariness is met with support. When dreams are followed by action. When one is convinced to escape for a few hours to the beach, and despite a fear of riptides and the unknown, is drawn into the blessed coolness of the water. When tenderness is permitted. Hours spent in silence.

The NaPoWriMo day 9 prompt was to write a list of thing in the style of the 10th century poet and Japanese courtier, Sei Shonagon. Her witty and sometimes unsympathetic observations in her Pillow Book make for an entertaining read.

Ok, I get it.
We are not on the same page.

My page is made of lilywhite parchment.
It’s filled with words like privilege & poolside.
Its feather quill etchings tell of family vacations,
Backyard play dates And back-to-school shopping.
Yes, there are scars, slashes
And teardrop stains,
But they are hidden at the edges
Under bits of discarded wrapping paper
From countless Christmas mornings.

Your page was pounded and pulped
From the root of Shaka.
The izithakazelo, once etched in African clay,
Rubbed out and replaced with a dompas rubber stamp.
Its faded markings tell of dead brothers,
Backyard chickens and the Sharpeville-school-shooting.
No tears, nor running water were permitted to seep through.
Ripped out and tossed across the ocean,
Lucky only that you did not come chained in a cargo hold.
Yet, akin the pages of your black brothers and sons here,
Filled with terms like thug & hoodie,
Lynching & shit-hole country.
Though the word kaffir has been replaced with nigger,
Segregation substituted for Apartheid,
The sentiment remains.

I don’t know why it took me so long to realize
That we will never be on the same page.
I’m sorry.

Linoleum cut by Elizabeth Catlett titled …and a special fear for my loved ones (from I am the Black Woman) , 1946

This poem, for day 7 of NaPoWriMo, is a direct response to Rachel McKibbens’ Twitter post, here:

“What do you deserve? Name it. All of it. What are you ready to let go of? Name that too. Then name the most gentle gift for yourself. Name the brightest song your body’s ever held. Summon joy like you would a child; call it home. It wanders, yes. But it’s still yours.”

Why?
When I consider naming what I deserve
Does my diaphragm draw up
Pushing tears
Into the corners of my eyes.
I deserve a more joyful visceral response for my deepest longing

I keep thinking
I deserve a normal life
Where I pay my bills on time and drive a reliable car
But maybe what I actually deserve is the the kind of joyful-mess
That doesn’t cause me to squander my prayers
On such normalities

I let go of
Simultaneously thinking I am
Too small and incapable
And
Too big and important
To fail

I give myself
The gift of vulnerability
Unashamed
Arms stretched wide
Head back
The freedom to release my muscles
To the movements my soul has silently rehearsed
All these decades

I’m still awaiting
That brightest song
Its motifs whispered in morning birdsong
Children’s laughter
And small silent awakenings
I keep gathering up those notes

That song is brighter
It requires ears not made of flesh
And my longing to hear it
In itself brings joy
When I find that song
I will be home

So worth watching is the video of Rachel McKibbens also highlighted today on napowrimo.net, particularly if you or a loved one has experienced mental illness. It deserves sharing so here it is:

If wishes were 737s
They wouldn’t fall from the sky

If wishes were money
We’d buy tickets and fly

If wishes were time
At each sunset we’d smile

If wishes were distance
We’d laugh at each mile

If wishes were soil
We’d no longer roam

If wishes were bones
We’d call that place home