Prophecy 7 plus years ago...

Nana

you were 6

i hugged you as we twirled
from kitchen to porch your chubby cheek pressed against mine
we whirled down the steps
across the lawn
the man in the moon grinned
& sprinkled us with pixie dust
i thought you'd ignite
in colored flames
like a catherine wheel
on the day of the dead

then the sparrows sang
& the man in the moon
closed his eyes & i sobbed
till my larynx almost ruptured
& my heart escaped
& vanished
into the cresting light
in the east

Damian "Jr. Gong" Marley - Slave Mill (Acapella)

How A Temper Grows Up

In the morning there is a doorway—

bare bone soft feet step bare

so as not to make floorboards scold.

Voices lowered by the dawn,

a small body pressed to the lapel of a kitchen wall,

a cast iron skillet speaking pancake batter.

This is the world of the newly born,

plus the alleyway off Galt Ave.

and the front yard tree with branches for arms.

There is rage at the taking of things,

lullabies to sooth the inability to dress oneself,

to bathe oneself clean of the day.

The outside is where the swings are

that keep from the sky, where I learn

feeling the wind is like flying standing still.

If I am to be here there must be a blaze,

or at least something that spits and howls

and is not too stubborn to die after burning.

When I learn to love

remind me of the whip between my teeth,

of the bees trapped in my mouth.

Call me home twice like dinner is cold

before I run to beat you

to the place my breath is heaviest.

Most times I can’t find my hands,

left inside where the world can’t get in

if I close the door tight enough.

In here these voices claw at the wall

loud as shadows and I fight them

like my fists have never known flat palms.

I have calmed this rage to a rain

you will still smell in your clothes

the morning after. 

By Makenzie Berry

The Peace Of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

- Wendell Berry 

Dirge Without Music by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.  Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—

They are gone.  They are gone to feed the roses.  Elegant and curled

Is the blossom.  Fragrant is the blossom.  I know.  But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know.  But I do not approve.  And I am not resigned.

memory #85: The old man in the wheelchair

 

It was difficult for my grandfather to accept his body was failing. There was a raging wind in his frail shell. His soul was young and willing, but his days were full of long winters, and they came like an avalanche, weighing him down and suffocating life out of him. He realized there'd be no more springs. "I guess we'll be taking my elephant skin to a nursing home," he said, laughing as my young son tenderly caressed the pachyderm skin he found so exotic and beautiful. "Qué piensas astronauta," he asked my son. My son smiled and rested his cheek on his great-grandfather's arm.

Only a week after our visit, perhaps two, my grandparents grudgingly moved to an assisted living facility. There, they befriended an old man in a wheelchair who never had visitors. He hadn't seen his son or daughter for years. Every time I drove Mom and Dad to Muscatine, Iowa, we'd invite him over for a visit. We'd bring him sweets, word puzzles, and knickknacks, but mainly, we'd engage him in conversation. He'd share memories of his wife and kids. Sometimes, it was emotional, but I always managed to hold my composure. Whenever he saw us, he'd roll down the hallway as fast as he could. He'd wave and greet us with, "Buen dia, amigos! Buen dia!"

After my grandparents passed, I was so preoccupied with my problems and issues that I pushed him into the deep recesses of my mindscape, where he slowly faded into obscurity. But years later, while talking to a friend whose parents were contemplating moving to an old folks home, I recalled the tiny, old man. Ever since, when dwelling on my mortality, I imagine him in his wheelchair, by the nursing home entrance, underneath the apple blossoms, anxiously waiting for my arrival.