Year's End

I start with a lie. That's too strong. A falsehood. How about a miscalculation? The year has not ended. That's a fact. We are not at year's end, not fully, not yet, not now. I start with the half life of a half truth. I start with a start, a stutter start. I stutter my strut of a start because I have nothing to say, nothing to say except to lament the rubble and ruins, the strewn limbs and blood rivers of Putin's nightmare backward lurch into history. To think that World War Two was over? And to honor, I can't find proper synonyms, the bravery, heroism, patriotism, valor of Ukraine, its people amidst the smoldering slaughter, that mother on a gurney outside the bombed maternity ward they later said she and the baby died, that image to remember, like the silent scream freeze-frame shot to the head in Saigon, or the white man brandishing the US flag against the restrained black man, the soiling of old glory, Stanley Forman, and so on, ad nauseam, till death do us unite. Even before year's end I want to flip the calendar, turn the page, close the books, hurry before there's more, hurry up, there's time, and that's both horrifying and hopeful is it not.

Apostolic Blessing

Freedom of Espresso scene, real life: She: a print dress, paisley to my eyes on a background of torquoise; open face, wide smaile; tall leggy; bright. Enter him: muscular, clean-shaven, taller, trim, Harley Davidson shirt but subtle. They sit at the table in front of me. Engaged. Riveted. his back was to me. She was animated, smiling the whole half hour or was it an hour. She had eyes for him. You can tell.

They left.

Me too.

I caught them in the parking lot. I accosted them.

You know, I just have to tell you both. You two look so happy. I saw you in there. So happy. You remind me of me and my girlfriend. People tell us all the time how happy we look. We are. Same with you two. You look so happy together.

Thank you. Oh wow. 

Man.

Jeez.

They exchange glances.

Her face turns red, the verge of tears.

We're blessed. The Universe has blessed us, man.

But guess what? This is the first time we have met in person!

It's true. Really.

That's crazy. That's how it was with me and Faith. We knew each other fifty years ago and reconnected last year. It was instant chemistry. And now it's like we're apostles of love, apostles of happiness.

I can't believe this.

I'm Paul.

I'm J.

I'm M.

Hold it.

I went to my car and came back with a copy of On the Spectrum from Me to You.

Here. That's my story, our story. Enjoy.

I want to read it first.

She got into her SUV. She had parked right next to me. She rolled the window down. She was quite oversome by emotion.

I don't know what to do. I live in New Hampshire.

Don't worry about that. Go with your heart.

My apostolic blessing.

Confederacy of None

oh say can you see

a pox upon our land

a Pax Americana

no not never

oh my can you spy

a flag swirling

in the bed of a pickup

a rebeling with a cause

if hatred is so called

fear by any other name

as sordid and as sour

as the banner of the hour

this far north

this far gone

an uncivil war

a confederacy of none

a lunacy of race

and riot and roar

a sound and a fury

of democracy

out the door

Exit Strategy

The paperwork is in place

Ready for processing

Before the spiraling expiry date

No it isn't

It never is

Like Tony Soprano

All due respect

Reaching across the table at the Jersey diner

The jukebox's Journey's Don't Stop Believin'

No not yet

Affairs are never in order

Not quite

Prepared for

That rudest of rude interruptions

All due respect

#SCOTUS v. 2022

gimme an L gimme an I gimme an F

(and an FU2)

gimme an E

womb tomb BOOM

firing squad lethal injection guns and no butter death penalty electric chair let 'em fry more guns carry conceal reveal life penalty choice no choice gimme me a gun Johnny got his give me a bomb cradle to grave

through my fault through my fault through my most grievous fault

mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa

pro-life pro-white pro-gun pro-men pro-right pro-wrong pro-lie

wave the flag

wear it

wrap yourselves in it

sashay in it

sway away

lipstick smeared

ear to ear

grinning gamely

smiling widely

in your robes

your Robespierre robes

Reigning Error

rain of righteousness

razing democracy

raising theocracy

Amen.

 

 

The Orchid Teacher (An Update)

Back in the Time of Quarantine (TOQ), in March 2020, I wrote about the notion that Mother Nature teaches us, not vice versa. Thus, "my" orchids have taught me they bloom and blossom, live and die, in their own time, if at all. Despite my ministrations and proddings, they rebloom when they say so. (Incidentally, are we not still in the TOQ? Some are; most aren't.)

All four of "my" orchids had thus far refrained from expressing themselves via white, yellow, pink, or purple blossoms of the sort they were arrayed with when I received them. 

Fair enough. Have it your way.

I was undaunted. Correction: I was content with who and what they were. I appreciated an applauded the new green leaves that kept on sprouting from the delta of the existing foliage. I had been obeying the most common dictum of successful orchid growers: Benign Neglect. Bowing to the orchids as my teachers, I let them do what they would do, absent resentment, rancor, or expectation.

Or so I say.

Recently, one of the little plants slowly burst forth a shoot that differed from the roots that float into the air or burrow into the matrix like lazy tentacles of a small octopus. This shoot was thinner than the meandering roots and of a different shade of green, less pale. Most surprising of all, it sported buds! No question, those were buds. A half dozen nascent nodules of exuberant blossomitude. This was the secular, natural miracle I was unpraying for.

I was like a kid (secular or religious, Santa Clausified or capitalismified) the week before Christmas.

And then . . . 

And, um, then . . . 

[I can barely bring myself to admit it.]

And then, last evening, I figured I would attach the pregnant branch to the vacant and mournful solitary chopstick the plant came with, the slender sentinel that allows one to clip a branch onto it so it grows upward, according to an unspoken, if vain, aesthetic. Why not? Let's celebrate this vernal renascence with upward mobility! Who needs droopy doldrums perilously inching downward away from the mother-ship green leaves?

As I was gently and delicately trying to curl the tiny fleible clasp embracing the stalk onto the stick, it snapped. Without a sound, but palpable and visible nevertheless. I had grievously injured the vindication and triumph of my do-nothingness. (I was brought up on the Confiteor, during the recitation of which we would beat our breasts over the words "through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.") The budding branch was not quite severed, but I suspect it is done for. Kaput. For good measure (really, as a quixotic gesture if ever there was one), as a palliative I curled some plastic tape around the trauma site. Perhaps it would allow some sort of mysterious recovery. This was like putting masking tape around a broken arm.  

I was so distraught I could not tell anyone until the next day, when I confessed to my beloved a "crime against Nature, possibly unforgivable."

Maybe it will survive and prevail. Most likely not. There are other fish in the sea, other orchids in the jungle, blah blah blah.

Right.

The orchid teacher is teaching me a painfully obvious lesson:

LEAVE WELL ENOUGH THE FUCK ALONE.

Tragedy in Loco Parentis

it becomes a shorthand

a savage synecdoche

for which we have no synonyms

except blood nightmare shred death 

and sinews of sadness singing

an aria without words or melody

 

a broken record

 

Columbine Cleveland Chardon

Red Lake Nickel Mines (Amish)

 

they become a shorthand

these slaughters that stream

one into the other flooding

our jaded memories

Sandy Hook Parkland 

Santa Fe (Texas) Oxford (Township)

Uvalde (now) (this) (again) (AR-15) (again) (kids) (children) (innocents) (once) (again) (thoughts and prayers) (makeshift memorials) (flowers flowers flowers) (teddy bears) (magazines) (again) (clips) (bullets) (this) (now again)

[silence]

sobs cries wails sobs screams cries sobs

[silence]

. . . and then the inevitable onslaught of cliches promises jingoism flag-waving theories speculations loner angry boy boy boy male man young troubled loner rage pent-up why why why NRA July 4 lobbyists money money money marketing male rage against the what the who my rights my rights my rights protect me from me the land of the free

except for the cost

the incalculable cost

[silence]

[  ]

[ . . . ]

Memorial Day

Mother's Day Song

 

Mater Jubilaei / Mother of Joyful Things

This was originally posted on Mother's Day, 2021. I happened upon it either accidentally or providentially, your pick, on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-R8TefGH_4 It's a mystery to me as to who wrote the words. Is it Tosca Donati, the Italian singer and actress featured on the YouTube linked here? Is it an old hymn? After all, it's in Latin, is it not? I fake-translated the Latin words below (I can't remember how I found them) into this poem, from a memory of Latin, undictionaried, laden with a memory of my mother, who died in 2018, at 102. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you. 

 

I look for one

expecting all: sure that more is to come

why expect so little

pray it to your falcon wings

tell me what you ask of me

seeking the core of better things

Mother of joy, joy

of motherhood, Mother of eternity . . . 

Eternal Mother

of all things Everlasting Motherness

circumspicio una
Omnes expectant : certe aliquis veniet
Cur exspectetis mini
dicite vos peregrini.
Quem quaeras mihi dic,
cor meliora petens.
Mater jubilaei, jubilum
matris, Mater aeternitatis...
Aeternitatis mater,
Aeternitas omnium Matrum

Birds of a Feather

stick together

more or less

some more than others

hummingbirds a thousand

and penguins eighty times that

we're talking feathers here

not rathers or druthers, mind you

feathers

birds of feathers

feathers of birds

tough as leathers

smooth as lies

thick as thieves

coats of armour

anti-harmers

so, what of humans

what of us

unfeathered and untethered

flights of fancy

fighting nights of fire

what about us

humans, unwinged and unhinged

skinned alive

or skinned dead

humans, if only we could soar

where would we fly to

who would we be

and how

tell us, oh Phoenix

 

  

The Measure of a Man

for Thomas F. Coman Sr. 

Just one


Of a kindness


Unseen


These days


A mensch among men


Placid amid the storm


Sheltering steadiness


Rising above it all


Anonymous not clamorous 


Good and faithful servant 


Well done


Done well 


Light perpetual 


Shine in silence 


So be it


Be it so


Ever and anon


Shore-ward sailing

Six Feet

remember that yardstick?

(more like two of them)

a metric that mattered

(so we were told)

social distancing

defining where

one aura began

another ended

(I should have said era)

up there

aboveground

not that 6 feet

for god's sake

and then today

or was it yesterday

(time has become so timeless)

as I walked by the school

elementary, so primary

colors, I saw those chalk outlines

body shapes

pastel designs

I am sorry to report

that reminded me 

of a TV crime scene

(a not-very-parenthetical aside

I am told)

all kidding aside

I wish I didn't go there

don't you

I wish we all did not

go there or anywhere

like that 

Ukrainian Rain

on a field of blue and yellow

sky and gold

on plains of wheat

and cities of old

an ancient rain falling

fresh as blood

and raw as meat

a lone baby crying

an aria forgotten

and a mercy unsuckled

a prayer still screaming

war

how foolish we thought

we felt so retro

that war was

just

a thing

an ancient artifact

a boomer anecdote

a cold memory

a hot flash

war so old-fashioned

framed out of history

texts and rubble

sepia photos

black and white

either or

infants' limbs

family shrapnel

silent shards

blood so loud

we thought

that was all over

war and peace

a novel idea

it was just beginning

the recurring nightmare

an endless loop

a rosary of mercy

we need

and want 

a garland of roses

we pray

beseech

beckon

we beg for

peace

now

in our time

this now

this time

cancel culture

cancel culture

as in what

culture

such as it is

or was

or will be

world without end

canceled check

balance overdue

canceled cells

cancered sells

checks in the mail

chain mail

ancient artifacts

like paper

and facts

themselves

cc: blind copies

can-can culture

no can do

yes we can

bel canto

incantatory

stories

ad infinitum

rearview solstice

they said it was the shortest day not a D-Day but a December diurnal one a solstice they said something about the sun earth nexus something about the failing light flailing to find itself on the upswing stretching out the light the definition of day and now I am flailing to see that in my February-drenched rearview mirror the one with the solstice memory the one with the solstice promise winking at me the driver me the one masquerading as something someone whose name escapes me

The Nicene Creed

nice not the first thought

nicene being

its adjective twin

yet nicene enough

insense and all

maker of all things 

of all that is

seen and unseen

(that infinite comma up there)

think about it 

all that is

both seen and unseen

shrouded by skin

shaped by veins

eternally begotten

not made

faith more than creed

creed more than doubt

a twig

to stand on

seen not seen

felt not felt

in time

forever

 

 

Anything's Possible

except I hate absolutes

or is it fear

any thing

solid liquid air

possible

might 

could

would

should

anything be possible

including me

or you

excluding no one

anything's possible

it's been said

so I've been told

even this

these words

bursting into

nothing's impossible

kingdom queendom

come

worlds without end

in thralldom

Hello, Hello, L2 Halo

a million miles away

give or take or 

take or give or

hullo hello halo

within one's orbit

climbing the gravity ridge

from Earth

Sun's thermal grasp

one last gasp

before nothing

before everything

O second Lagrange point

en pointe

"riding up and down and over and along the shallow saddle contour at L2"

cresting on words

Webb's scope and scale and view

what a trip