Recital

On a Sunday without sun.
A day of Revelations, 
-without all the Light.
I think of how my elderly mother 
is likely being beaten
down and on 
by her husband...
I think of how the man 
who says he loves me 
is likely cheating
on me and is always down around me...
I think of my adult children 
and how they have struggled with me 
and grown still
suspicious
all the more-
none the less,
I think of all of the sandcastles I have built, 
now perfectly indistinguishable from all 
other failures;
grains, hairs, skin flakes and ashes 
that I have left 
strewn around trying to blend in...
I think I have been told my whole life 
to put it down-
I think I misunderstood.
I wonder how 
I could ever think
thoughts could be read 
like a sermon we share
or the psalms we hold 
in memory. 



Painting by Claude Monet, Camille Monet on a garden bench, c. 1873 in Public Domain. 

S(h)ervant

I have served between eight and twenty-five 

thousand meals for my family,

I make coffee for them more than once per day,

equating to tens of thousands of perky hot pots.

I have given away my last dollar countless times,

I have shared the best bite, held my breath,

I have waited eternities all the while diluting myself,

watering patience back to life in the long afternoon heat. Thirsted for a moment.

I have dried tears, kissed scrapes, wiped milk, picked up,

and cheered up others, all while crawling on my hands and knees.

Does it count?

How many socks have I matched or single-handedly lost?

How many squares of cloth have I folded in nice ninety-degree angles?

How many circles have I Venn in?

How many bubbles have I burst?

How many sides have I taken

down only to expose what was hollow inside?

I have said the three words 'I love you'

and they have not all come back around 

on any one or two

ellipse-this is

proof of expansion or an open Universe, 

no place like Home.

My hands are callused, my feet are blistered and tender,

my eyes are faded and brittle, my skin gets heavier day by day,

and my hair glistens faintly like brass,

my cartilage collapses and all my salt sloughs off.

What is left to make of this? 

I have forgetten how freedom is one-sided and furthermore I have failed 

to recall my name when I am most lost, 

when I am too busy, when the last course

is done, when the words, 'my pleasure' meant motive,

when advantage was a taken

and Time 

was given.

What will be said about what is done?

I put this here, so someday they may say,

Her sentence had served her well. 

Painting by Jules Lefebvre, 'Servant' c. 1880 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Point A

Home is where we start from,
Eliot said,
while one is busy making plans,
planted Lennon trees,
as though making a home and getting somewhere,
were lasting-
things are all ending around you.

It is not as if Paradise was the same as Innocence
and yes,
both disappeared,
were sheared from necessity
like baby teeth and training wheels,
and how it hurts worse
when home
and are overfed.

Home is a net,
or a web.

He picks up the guitar again and gives it
another chance
this time, she says, until
his fingers bleed.

The other one drives herself away
and is made stronger
so far
from home,
her hopes await.

They both grow from the 'here'
they call Home,
while I make myself busy
tuning the strings
to help them hear, or find
harmony in their spheres
and recognize the crystalized tone
of their own spin,
at least phonetically
one Here's
it to be, pronounced
Home or Ohm.

Raised from nothing but ashes.


Photo By Paik, Kenneth, 1940-2006, Photographer (NARA record: 8464462) (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.