About Dismantling Grief

“Dismantling Grief is never a straightforward thing. Start
with a handful of earth, scattered over the wrapped
body lowered into the ground.” 

from Dismantling Grief  by Zeina Hashem Beck

a handful of dirt

not enough to bury you

nor enough for grief

—Paul Causey

Considering

is there anything?

there is life

there is life

that comes with audacity

making the smallest part

a thing to submerge the mind and heart 

with unreasonable wonder and joy

and too, there are acts within this life

that burn through souls and flesh 

and bone and blood with horror 

determined and justified

that out-screams any dialogue of peace and justice

and yes 

there is darkness 

that lighting of lamps

can shape to just be shadows

and there is light that’s best known 

by the nuance of gloom

each moment accepted 

has an option 

to ease attachment

that makes chaos almost sweet

with less attention 

to grooming memories 

to live as changeless certainties

and here’s the thing

not each moment will be a nourishment

but each can advocate for wonder

for a life like a river

that’s moved by its own way of being.

—ed sancious

May We Exist

How often do we see?

How often do we see ourselves?

How often are selves inclined to be seen? 

Is certainty only face to face?

The body tries to say all, 

yet it barely offers what it can.

Wholeness, by design, 

hinges on the lyrics of the heart.

Syncing breath with being.

Embracing ancestors in the blood.

We are birthed inert, yet bonded,

by ordinary miracles 

and manageable necessities.

Being human – being perfectly imperfect.

Being mindful,

learning there is that watershed moment

which is a drop, 

which is a stream, 

which is the wave

that washes away illusion

that without the mud

there will be a lotus.

—ed sancious

Christmas Cactus

I left you alone.

Two weeks without water.

When I came back I thought your limbs drooped heavy 

because: flowers.

Some already sticky, rotted fruit, 

others waiting to burst forth into the sun.

I considered giving you away, as easily as you’d been given to me.

You are a cactus, you don’t need water.

If your withered greens fall off in places it’s because you are a cactus.

You don’t need water.

You don’t need love.

You don’t need attention.

Alone at home, I doused you in a bath of tap,

set you outside 

to listen to the insects hum

to feel the warmth of the day’s last rays of sun. 

When chill descended, I brought you in, 

considered dinner:

lion’s mane mushroom rips, garlic smashed, asparagus singed.

When it was done, I turned to find your limbs raised up.

It was probably just a little bit.

But you looked a ballerina, revived and ready to dance

Forgive me, little teacher.

I didn’t love you, I didn’t tend to you.

But you still did the work of bursting forth with flowers.

Forgive how quick I dismiss. 

Forgive how little I look around 

to catch your beauty, most profound.

—Emily Romano

Blue Sky

a blue sky

stretching out before us

wisps of clouds

along the distant horizon

Mt. Tam in the background

my Mt Fuji

the Golden gate bridge

magnificently across the Bay 

my little dog Noodle

sits close and shivers 

together we look from

our mountain bench 

inspired by the panorama 

Noodle frightened

by the vastness    

—Bruce Linton

while the world was on fire

while the world was on fire   

I watched carefully 

as the low sugar 

strawberry jam 

spread across the 

thinly sliced  

sourdough batard bread, 

the smell of the

the Arabian coffee 

was intoxicating,  

our small dog "Noodle" 

chewed on her bone relentlessly,  

Carolyn did her concert in C Minor 

as she unloaded the dishwasher,

our bird clock chimed 10am with the Owl hooting, 

the rain had stopped

outside our open door to the garden 

Japanese maples rested for winter

—Bruce Linton