—Deontrai Damond
If I Were a Child and Waiting
If I were a child, I would climb the venerable
Pecan tree, in my backyard. It holds my world
in place, like the mythic Yggdrasil, whose roots
hold the world together ~ never to loosen.
Along a sturdy branch, I’d chat with the
squirrels, and share a nut or two from my
pocket, and wonder at their scampering leaps
into the space between twig ends of limbs.
Pausing here, I fall into my adult self.
Grounded, like a plane without fuel, altitude
lost, I recall losses irreparable. Settling
against the massive trunk, filled with the
rings of Time, I recalled that at the heart of
me is a fragile sprout of beginning.
The rough bark, wrinkled Time, reminds
me that I may grow again from here,
surrounded by accumulated years of
experience. I can learn the scampering
risk of leaping from stem end to stem end,
across the space of fear.
—Martha Ward
Shoot After the Storm by Amanda Webb
Past pleading for warmth
against the pain of cold,
the wintery wait, the weight
of the cold, persisted.
Slipping my arms along my
sides, I was surprised to feel
warmth radiating from my core.
Numbed hands felt their way under
my buttocks, seeking the supple fat
for their warm nest, cheek to cheek.
Head helmeted, in woolen hat,
only my feet numb, absorbing
the arctic air stealing in through
the walls, floor, windows. Rubbing
them together, only let me know
their ache. Moving from my shroud
of blankets, to find warmth for them
would mean, inviting the cold to wash over me.
I waited, I waited, then snow gave way
to the sun’s light. And, with it the return
of electricity. Feet arched eagerly, feeling
blood rush, trumpeting.
—Martha Ward
The Little Foxes Salute the World
Little green world, plump as an olive,
how we love you!
We, the little foxes
cavort at night in the grass of your hair.
The air is sweet with the lavender scent of the chinaberry,
and the chuck will’s widows
hide themselves in the dark trees
and sing their night song like lullabies.
We were born in the old den,
the great mound of earth by the oak trees,
redolent of foxes,
where our grandmother and grandfather foxes lived from the beginnings of fox time.
Water was far
until the human brought it here
under the old windmill
towering in the night sky.
But rats and mice
scampered through the woods at night,
and our mothers
taught us to hunt and climb the cedar trees
to stalk
to pounce
to rip things apart with our sharp little teeth
and fill our round white furry bellies
in gratitude
for the plenty the earth.
Little green world,
how we love to be here!
We love to drink of your water.
Well water is fine,
but cold spring water, with a whiff of slime and rot, is even better. We love the little hop rats and the mice, sometimes a lizard or a bunny, a wriggly snake, once a buffet of turkey slices the human put in the field, perfect except for a bit of blue green mold. We love the dewberries and the sour persimmons, the wild grapes that grow up the oaks with stems like trunks of their own.
We love to roll in your dirt and clean the bugs out of our fur.
We love to play in your fields
and run up and down your trees like playscapes.
We don’t see much color, but, still,
the flowers and the sky at dusk are wondrous.
We are so a part of you, plump little olive-earth
And we so love being a part of it all.
—Elayne Lansford
Sometimes What Comes to Us, We Never Called For
I never called for cancer, but it came anyway.
It was not gentle. It was more like the Mongol horde invading.
I thought I was fine one day. The next day I was told I might be very, very sick.
Hmm, something could be wrong, let us stick these huge needles in you to get some core samples.
Hmm, something is wrong, let’s do some exploratory surgery, pull out a bunch of lymph nodes just in case, and cut some nerves. You won’t feel all of your arm afterward, but you will feel most of it.
Hmmm, everything has to go. We will cut it all off, but leave you with some plastic bags of saline water shoved under your chest muscles, which we can inflate as much as you want. Oh, you will no longer be able to use your chest muscles correctly, and your skin could split, but that is just part of it.
Those stents and drains, well, that is just part of it too. Wear very, very baggy clothes so no one can see you are full of holes and tubes. You can work with your drains in. Just hide them.
Uh oh, looks like you need chemo as well. The doses are all standard, whether you weigh 100 or 300 pounds. We can’t give you a smaller dose, even if your liver processes as slowly as a turtle. It’s the law.
Oops, you didn’t react so well, did you? It hit your central nervous system, you walk like someone with cerebral palsy. It may go away. Oh, the skin in your mouth is sloughing off and you cannot eat? Ensure is great. Try it, use a straw.
You have shooting pain in your toes? That is neuropathy. You are lucky you can feel them at all. And your fingers are fine, be grateful. What to do about it? We don’t know.
Your hair has fallen out and you are sometimes so weak you need to crawl? It will pass. Probably your hair will grow back. But it may be different hair, like someone else’s hair on your head. Wear a scarf, wear a cap, wear a wig.
You feel like the healthy person you once were has died, and you are old before your time, and disfigured? Well, you are alive. That is really the best we can do.
Cancer is Zen boot camp. You spend a lot of time “in the howl,” as Annie Lamott says. You are too sick to plan, and maybe you are going to die, so you learn to live in the moment. Life? You realize you may not have much of it. That poor bag of bones and skin you call your body? You learn that it is fragile and impermanent. Your mind? You learn it fragments and distorts and falls to pieces when things are awful enough. Your work? You can’t do it, so you can’t identify with it. Your roles? Being responsible, being upbeat, being a giver? Pretty much gone. With your drug addled mind, you can’t be trusted to be responsible. Upbeat? When your life feels “live from the Book of Job?” Pretty difficult. A giver? The only thing you have left to give is your gratitude.
But if it all works, you learn that none of this really matters. You learn that while you will die, now or later, life will go on. If you are lucky, that will bring inconceivable joy. You learn that not all friends are there in tough times, but many are, and one can live buoyed by love, somehow floating on it when otherwise one would sink. You learn to be very, very present.
—Elayne Lansford
Coyote
She was observing us, still
with her golden brown silhouette
She did not move the whole time
while my own dog, Scooby
was walking around
oblivious
taking in the smells
of the earth
with her golden brown silhouette
She did not move the whole time
while my own dog, Scooby
was walking around
oblivious
taking in the smells
of the earth
I noticed
and waited
hoping she would stay
Should I stay still
or should I walk a bit
to see if I could see her better?
I walked towards her
and she didn’t move
until Scooby noticed her
Scooby froze and stared at her for a minute
and suddenly
the coyote ran back into the woods
leaving me and Scooby in the field
watching
wishing
she would return
She looked a lot like my own dog
who I sometimes observe pouncing on a toy
her back arched and frozen in the air
and I sometimes wonder
how much coyote she has in her
I also envision the same coyote
rolling in the grass on her back
with a stupid grin on her face
like my dog does every time I take her to a field
Before I left
I threw one of Scooby’s old tennis balls to that area
thinking
maybe she would come back
and have something to play with
or at least smell our scent
and in my dreams
thinking it was our gift to her
—Miki Tesh
The shades of your glasses
Some people thrive in fear, some in times of joy
While others await for a miracle to come
And wash away all the sins that have left them numb;
I have to stay strong and tall, not just a dumb toy
That only witnesses life’s unbearable flaws
With content, while all our dreams and ambitions,
Are wiped before our eyes leaving behind the cause
We wished we all had sworn as our sole mission.
Now, with all my munitions in hand, I will fight
For all that remains and give all my heart and soul
To the fallen soldiers that had crowning foresight.
As for those who relish in this complaisant role,
Be present and set down your gray tinted glasses;
After all, even the darkest of storms passes.
—Aileen Roungou
Wanting
There was a time when people did what their fathers did.
Or mothers depending upon their gender.
There was a time when people did so many things,
Things to just survive.
Their skills were many,
their tasks even more.
hunt, gather, cook, build, tend.
A person did it all or simply died.
What was it like
to know that what you did at any given time
was critical to your survival?
To your family’s?
What was it like to have to do something that truly mattered?
Today, in this age of specialization, is it any different?
Has anything changed in the last 2000 years?
4000 years?
We still “want” to survive.
But today, I think we want more.
We want to learn, to understand, to “live”,
To make things better for ourselves, for our families, for each other.
The change, I think is that now, we “want” to make a difference.
What we do matters.
—Paul Causey
In Forgotten Tin Cans
Filtered light through
Leaves unfurled
Casting shadows all about.
Dancing flowers with petaled skirts
Stretch to be caressed
By drops dripping from branch to branch,
Limb to limb.
The storm has passed, leaving swollen
Streams to carry seasoned
Leaves away to nourish life
Anew far, far away.
Uncovered in the flood bits of glass,
Broken bottles, their notes of
Desperation gone and lost forever,
And a lone forgotten tin can,
Rusted around the edges, dented and no
Less worse for wear,
Mired in the muck and mud left behind.
Inside the smell of rain
Fresh upon the air, escaping
With a sigh to fill the void
Left by fleeting clouds.
Its clean, sharp edges
Cut through the haze.
It speaks of growth, of life, of forgiveness,
Of love reborn.
A welcome unto Spring.
—Paul Causey
The Shot
He decides to make a move.
Is it on impulse?
Or necessity.
He commits to a
a choice, an action;
That no matter what,
He is willing to accept
All that happens next.
Anticipation of
Water splashing high
Onto the woolen dress suit
Sized to perfection
By the skilled hands
Of a local tailor.
Cleaning isn’t cheap
Nor is it a quick task
Might take weeks
To get it back from the shop
And at least forty bucks
For the jacket top alone.
Pants? Twenty-six.
Leather shoes from
Bovine skin wrapped
Expertly around soles,
Ankles and toes.
Layered over a nylon
Sock that reaches
mid-calf.
Soaked in cold water
Clinging to the taught, tender
Skin beneath it.
Hadn’t the clothing themselves
Proven to be unnecessarily
Unforgiving?
And yet this decision
Will only add more
Of that discomfort
To the mix.
Oh well!
No need to worry about all of those details now. He needs to get somewhere, quick!
Like his life depends on it.
And he takes the leap,
I wonder if he knew
That a camera caught
Him in mid-air and froze him in history
Just before the consequence
of his decision
Could ever be seen or felt.
—Ivory Smith
Siempre Adelantar
I dance along the edge
becoming increasingly aware
of how close I am to falling.
It is not knowing what I will find
when I fall that terrifies me.
Each move in this dance
makes my journey more dangerous.
Falling,
I may lose what little control I have.
But still I continue to dance.
Who will pick up the pieces?
Will there be any pieces to pick up?
Pieces.
Who will I have become
when I am put back together?
I have at various times,
in my life,
avoided pressing questions.
Fear,
limited my choices
lest the next step would change me,
would necessitate a change in my life
that I did not want to face.
If the tears start,
when will they end?
Will they end?
—Laura A. Smith
Dear Brother
I saw a picture of you in the photo album the other day and I thought of you. I remember you taught me how to fight so you would always win. It was fun and eventually I caught on to your sneaky ways.
I remember you taught me how to play football with your friends and how I was always the one that played the dummy.
As an older brother, you were the best. You told me not to do the things you did because you knew I would get into trouble; and you were right. I still wanted to do them though because you did.
Can you see me now from where you are? Is the sun shining or is it dark as night? Are the stars shining?
I’m doing all the things I can to see you, to remember you. The color of your hair, your smile; what you said when I said you didn’t have to go, I love you.
Can you see me now doing what the living do to remember someone they love? Can you see me trying to explain to my children why you are no longer here? How you died? Or how you lived?
We go on; forward, maybe backward. I’m not really sure, but we do all the things the living do. I wish you could tell me what you do when you are not here, when you’re not remembered anymore. Are you still there? Wherever you are?
Do you still see people living? Or do you see them dying? Is there a difference or is it simply different?
For now, I remember you. It’s what the living do.
—Paul Causey
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