My mother is a time traveler

 My mother is a time traveler

a trans-dimensional being

she exists in space-time in permeable fashion

here, with us, now

and simultaneously with friends long dead

eerily, radiantly aware of her impermanence 

and confusion

frightened, sad, saucy, funny, and always, always 

deeply connected to the mundane

the small things

not so small at all.

 

My sister is a lighthouse

Solid as the rock that anchors her 

to the land and sea

She withstands pounding and crashing

with grace 

with grit

Resolute and watchful

Exhausted more by the uncertain calm 

attentive to the sounds of winds, waves, and birds

the small things of life

not so small at all. 

 

My mother is a time traveler

today, she takes her longest and most mysterious journey

away from us, in some ways

radiantly aware of her own impermanence

she exists in space-time in permeable fashion

here, with us, now

and simultaneously with friends long dead

The stars are alive with joy at her delight 

in the small things of life

not so small at all. 

This Skin

This skin I'm in

is

sober

thirty years today

this skin I'm in 

is 

tissue

paper thin and fey

this skin I'm in

is 

leather

flexible as clay

this skin I'm in 

is 

wrinkled

gravity has its say

This skin I'm in 

is 

old

teaching me my name

this skin I'm in 

is 

young

dancing like a flame

this skin I'm in 

is 

stupid

holding on to shame

this skin I'm in

is 

endless

the player and the game

This skin I'm in 

is 

tougher 

than pain or loss or hell

this skin I'm in 

is 

softer

a whisper and a bell

this skin I'm in 

is 

parchment

the stories it can tell

this skin I'm in 

is 

moonstruck

I'm living where I dwell

I'm loving HOW I dwell

in this skin

I'm in

VERTIGO

VERTIGO

The howling began with sounds and syllables, at first

only a buzz

responding at an elemental level to a terrifying felt sense

then, the words and phrases, wailing

axes off kilter

scrabbling and frantic tumbling 

swirling sickening confusion

tilt a whirling 

wild 

a perfect storm

a tear in the fabric

a poet is dead

his sweet wordplay lingers and murmurs

stays with me (us)

I (we) breathe gratitude

 I (we) breathe relief for his reprieve

and  I (we) grieve

this magnificent loss

no one else is 

Carl Leggo

wondering about his grand-daughter's three syllable name.... 

Madeline

the howling began with sounds and syllables

wondering, I am wondering

(my) vertigo at a fever pitch 

sliding off the table of the world 

still here, 

rocked by the randomness of who dies

in the arms of this wild devouring bramble beast

and who lives

REMISSION 

The dragon is sleeping
 somehow
someday

she will awaken. 

Then, we will journey together

again. 

REMISS I on... a cloud

 of joy

and hope

there are words 

to write the carnal bedrock 

of living with....

NO

of dwelling with

this dragon 

RE-MISSION

as I steal and lean on another's 

lovely words

proud to be a thief 

who knows she needs 

help.

Finally.

First, you make the beast beautiful. 

There is a we here

There is a we here
that is not....
a 'we' that is

its embrace recognizes and welcomes
itself;

the insiders form a circle, and mouthpieces
proclaim platitudes of generic appreciation.

The circle is not for me--
neither do I crave it.
This is my sin.

There is a we here that is not....
a 'we' that is
Or maybe, there is a we here
that is
(an) US.

Thus I become
(a) them.

Triage makes you tired.....

Triage makes you tired if it's all you ever do
Pissed off, shaky, wired with no time for feeling blue
Caught up in the clamour, chasing down the clue
Triage makes you tired if it's all you ever do

Triage is seductive when it takes you by the hand
Surrounds you with its glamour, never boring, never bland
Relentlessly rewarding, something precious, something grand
Triage is seductive when it takes you by the hand

Triage is a minefield where no flowers ever grew
Discard a thousand cries for help and focus on a few
And claim that it's priorities that always make it through
Triage is a minefield where no flowers ever grew

Triage is a danger masquerading as demand
Silence is a stranger in this noisy, cluttered land
And reflection is your enemy until you take a stand
Triage is a danger masquerading as demand

Triage is a habit that can hold you by the throat
When you make a move to grab it, it will taunt you, it will gloat
And the context of its character is fortress with a moat
And the emptiest of vessels are the only things that float
And it takes a lot of push to move a heavy, hungry boat
Triage is a habit that can hold you by the throat

Triage makes you tired if it's all you ever do
You forget to be inspired by its colours or its hue
And you see the complex moving parts, but miss the larger view
And its face becomes a death mask from the poison in the brew
And you recognize the toxin in the words you thought you knew
And you realize this skill of yours is more than guts and glue
That it's not triage that's deadly, it's the hammer and the screw 
In that netherworld of double talk, bureaucracy and poo
Triage makes you tired if it's all you ever do

O (p) press I on

You are sitting at a desk-maybe your desk

Or a table-maybe your table.

Place your hands flat on top

Push hard on the surface

Count to ten

Do it again

Push hard with one hand and do another relatively easy or mundane task with the other hand

Count to ten

Do it again

Are you alone?

Place one hand and then the other on the surface, alternating

As if you are walking on your hands

As if your hands are walking

Make no noise

Do it ten times

Do it again

Are you alone?

Do the hand walking with more force, more noise, BUT DON’T RUSH

 Don’t compromise force for speed

Keep the pressure on…..

Are you alone?

Find a wall. Do it there. Two hands. Then one at a time.

Find another person

Do this side by side

Two hands

Then one at a time.

Now…. About this other person…..

Sit or stand face to face

Place hands against each other’s hands, palm to palm

Push into each other

Two hands, same time

Count to ten

Walking hands, alternating, against each other’s palms

Make no noise

Do it ten times

Practice pushing and yielding against each other

Only the hands

Make no noise

Do it ten times

Find another set of partners

Now you are four

Find a space in the centre of a room

Or go outside, find any open space

Imagine a giant box with a lid on a hinge….

It hangs open

It is your task to push it closed

Approach it as a group

Plan your timing

Gather round….

Open your hands

Push together

Push as if you were actually doing this work

Get under it, push, push

Push it up, now over

Now push it shut

One last push to be sure

Find a place / time to reflect on this

On pushing, pressing

Alone, with another, with a group

Was it exhausting? Exhilarating?

Is it something that becomes habit the more you do it?

Invisible in its familiarity?

It is something that makes its presence felt

Thrumming beneath the surface

Or off to the side?

Does the rhythm get into your blood?

Can you walk away because it left no impression?

(how)(what) Do you forget?

(how)(what) Do you remember?

That’s the question.