Misura Crescente

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I

Am

Able

To fathom

Multiplication of

Sun-shaped “leeches”seeking new homes.

Each Pair of lungs becomes weaker, times two, doubling, infinita infinitis.

Isolating—hiding from Aching, Burning, Coughing, to hide our Aching, Burning, Coughing—Isolating even when it is too late and not enough—Ice. Soul. Late.

The crescent curve on the graphs/charts/maps that total the tolls and count the cases represents the exponential misery that cannot be totaled, because there is more ahead and the numbers keep growing. We can measure the growth and measure the growth, always, always watching the crescent point towards more.

Parcel

Today’s Napowrimo.Net prompt is to write a haibun, which combines prose and haiku.  

 

Sliding out the side door, you step onto the deck to smell spring.  Worn wood tells the tale of quiet days reading in the sun. Summer soon shows up.  Before you set up the patio furniture, tulips have come and gone.  Lilies crowd around each other comparing their outfits and gossiping.  Before the sunburn cools, a brisk autumn breeze rustles the foliage and reminds you how quickly time flies.

Overfilled fire-pit
Branches, grass clippings, leaves and

No promise of s’mores.

Response to “Waiting”

The beautiful and brilliant Nikki Grimes wrote the following poem today:

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While I know it was not about me, it hit home so hard.  Hard.  After crying, I put my warrior pen in hand and wrote this response:

Julie no longer plays into the big hand,
     The heavy hand, the upper hand,
The hand that silences, shames, smacks.

She used to plead, “Pick me! Pick Me!”
     In a rush, she’d cast her heart into pools of abandonment—

Pearls to swine, like clockwork.

They could count on her to bear the secrets,
     The stains, the scarlet paragraphs and

Chapters that chronicled cries and crises.

But in the hour of need, past half the darkness
     The second hand clicked into place. . .

Safe hands and second chances surfaced.

This is her day in the sun. Love won.
     Flourishing, fostering freedom and hope,

Counting on truth—not time—to heal her wounds.

THE MAN WHO SEES THINGS

The Day 5 prompt from NaPoWriMo.net was a wild one.  I clicked on each link and counted to 23 in order to randomly select the image and the poem.  This is what I found:
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DE GEBRUIKER VAN DIT LICHAAM
Vliegangst is het scherpste protest tegen CO2: thuisblijven en
pissen in de pompbak, gedistilleerd drinken tegen waterschaarste
schepje rijst per dag. Kluizenaar met wilde haren wist het
stilzitten is de beste bescherming tegen pijn. Blijf binnen.

Isolatie is het beste antwoord op hitte, kou, geluidsoverlast en
information overload. Keuzeverlamming wordt lifestyle. Gelukkig is
een leven niet groter dan het blikveld van een oude kat die zich
oppervlakkig ademend steeds kleiner oprolt tot ze in zichzelf verdwijnt.

Kluizenaar vergist zich. Een lichaam kan niet niet bewegen
altijd pompter iets in rond: verlangen, verlangen en lucht. Sterven is

stilstand is sterven maar zelfs na het zwijgen van de pompen
het verteren van de cellen het verkleuren van de huid

zelfs binnen het dode lijf is er geen stilstand: sterrenstof werd kind
werd kluizenaar wordt sterrenstof wordt opgevreten, meegedragen
laat los, waait steeds verder van de kern, maar waait, beweegt.

-Runa Svetlikova

THE MAN WHO SEES THINGS

Some say that he is a ghost—man who is spirit, or at least
a man who knows his spirits well.  His boozy breath gets
worse through the evenings when his mind needs escape
from the desperate darkness troubling his bones.  Sadness.

He moves through town quietly, a nod, a smirk, a chortle
when he eyes someone eyeing him.  Aye, to see him
is to question everything—humanity, peace, poverty, power.
He holds these things with fingerless gloves and grace.

Rumors tell of a riches to rags route, a journey he will 
confirm and deny with a shrug of his shoulders.  Chin tilted
sideways, he turns the other cheek while gazing at
the infinite above us.  He sees things that we don’t.

I want to know and understand as he does.  What wisdom, what 
freedom, what calm he seems to know; while I am more familiar 
with clean clothes, new car smell, bills, anxiety, and fear. 

Dr. King Reminder

On this fourth day of NaPoWriMo I felt compelled to nod to Maya Angelou (it would have been her 90th birthday) and to acknowledge the atrocious assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (50 years ago).  I decided to write a Golden Shovel poem using three lines from Maya Angelou’s poem “Abundant Faith.”

These times of born again fear
Remind us that justice is not
Yet available for all.  We’ve
Witnessed brutality as our brothers come
Under fire—happens to our sisters too.

Hasn’t this gone too far?
Fifty years ago Dr. King reminded us to
Persevere, “We aren’t going to let dogs or water hoses turn
Us around.”  We shall not wallow in despair.  We must go back
To that Dream. We
Must go back to the truths that are
Self-evident. It is time for equity. We shall walk together, not
Alone. Free and empowered—no longer afraid.

Brothers and sisters, your lives matter and
It is time to join hands as we
Sing together, work together, pray together. We shall
hear freedom ring and see love overcome.

 

Warning

For Day 3 of NaPoWriMo I decided to do my own thing.  This is based on Langston Hughes’ poem “Harlem” which can be found at Poetry Foundation.

 

What happens to a voice unheard?

         Does it get lodged
         Like popcorn kernels behind a tonsil?
         Or deflate like a tire—
         And then collapse?
         Does it smell like singed hair?
         Or bubble and fizz—
         Like a chemical reaction?

         Maybe it just whispers
         Like cotton in one’s ears.

         Or does it scream?

 

 

After Words

 

Your radiant words—
Shiny, glowing, and full of promise—

Fool me not.

I have witnessed the way
Your warped lies wiggle

Like worms into dark soil.

You speak of liberty,
But captivating chatter rings hollow.

You are fluent in the language of the Oppressor.

Your rancid words—
Slimy, groping, and full of poison—

Fooled me before.

-Day Two of http://www.napowrimo.net

Pectin

It’s Day One of National Poetry Writing Month and  . . .Screen Shot 2018-04-01 at 10.49.34 PM

I’m
Eating
Jellybeans—
Orange, black, red, green—
Sweet, waxy, non-vegan, non-toxic joy.

 

Today, I chose a short and sweet style of poetry from https://www.youngwriters.co.uk/types-tetractys:

A tetractys consists of 5 lines, each line has a set number of syllables see below:

 Line 1 – 1 syllable
 Line 2 – 2 syllables 
 Line 3 – 3 syllables 
 Line 4 – 4 syllables 
 Line 5 – 10 syllables

 

From the NaPoWriMo.net site:

And last but not least, here is our (optional, as always) prompt for the day. It’s based off of Lauren Russell’s collaborative poetry exercise. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that is based on a secret shame, or a secret pleasure. It could be eating too many cookies, or bad movies, or the time you told your sister she could totally brush her teeth with soap. It’s up to you. Happy writing!

My Prayer for Today

When I woke up this morning, my eyes, ears, mind, and heart were filled with stories of the tragedy in Las Vegas. The emotional flooding began . . .

-Sadness about the loss of 50 lives.
-Grief for the families and friends of each of those people.
-Fear about the unleashed hatred that confronts us daily.
-Gratitude for the quick response of  law enforcement, emergency personnel, and civilians who worked quickly at the scene.
-Appreciation for those who have already stepped up to give blood and help save lives.
-Disgust with the human condition and that the shooter’s anger/rage/fear/unknown was     big enough to visibly harm over 200 people, and non-visibly harm a band, and city, a         plethora a families, a state, a nation, and then some.
-Amazement at how quickly this news spread across the nation and to other nations.
-Exhaustion from listening to the internal voices asking “What can we do? What can we do? What can we do?”

Needless to say, I started thinking about how our world needs more empathy, more grace, more love.  What does that look like? How do I do that?

The news told of a young concert-goer who had witnessed M______ D_______ shouting, “You’re all going to die tonight” 45 minutes prior to the shooting. She was led out of the concert because she was disruptive.  This gave me pause.  Was this her last act of desperation? Could things have gone differently if someone had heard her? Obviously, someone heard her, as her quote can be found all over the news. What I mean is could things have gone differently if someone had actually listened to her? What if as she was being escorted out somebody asked “What do you mean? Is this something you’re concerned about? I hear you. Tell me more. What do you think will happen next?”

Could the shooter have been stopped? Minutes beforehand? Days beforehand? Weeks ago?  What if someone had really listened to him months ago and responded with “What do you mean? Is this something you’re concerned about? I hear you. Tell me more. What do you think will happen next?” Could we have gotten help for him?

I understand that this cannot undo the damage that has been done. There’s been a lot of damage. Lives have been lost. We must grieve.  I’m just thinking that as I move forward, as I grow, as I try to love fearlessly, that maybe I need to listen more courageously.  Not ignoring. Not hoping someone else will deal with it.  Not writing it off because it’s not my problem, but fearlessly asking the questions. Listening.  People who are hurting do not usually do the most drastic thing first.  Acts of desperation come from smaller pain that escalates. Sometimes the signs are there beforehand.  Sometimes it’s just a whisper.  Ignored whispers become screams.  Ignored screams become acts of desperation. What would happen if I listen when people are indicating pain?

When someone is talking about depression, or suicide, can I make a difference if I were to respond with “What do you mean? Is this something you’re concerned about? I hear you. Tell me more. What do you think will happen next?”

When someone is talking about anger, and wanting to inflict violence can I make a difference by responding with “What do you mean? Is this something you’re concerned about? I hear you. Tell me more. What do you think will happen next?”

When a nation of people are demonstrating their pain, can I make a difference by responding with “What do you mean? Is this something you’re concerned about? I hear you. Tell me more. What do you think will happen next?”

When someone is hinting about abuse/violence/neglect in their own home, can I make a difference by responding with “What do you mean? Is this something you’re concerned about? I hear you. Tell me more. What do you think will happen next?”

Could I make a difference if I just listened?

Lord, help me to listen to others.  Help me to respond to other people’s hearts when it is early enough to hear, to understand, to help.  Help me to be brave enough to ask difficult questions, to be there for others, to respond and help before their pain becomes “too big.” Help me to listen to people when they are whispering for help so that they don’t have to scream for help.  Lord, help me to intercede and intervene (or at least just listen) before another person’s pain escalates into an act of desperation.

Lord, surround me with others who will also listen.  When I am struggling, let me be near another who will hear me.  When my pain becomes “too big” and I am on the path toward  a bad decision, self-harm, or any other act of desperation, place people in my life who love fearlessly. People who will ask tough questions. People who will listen.

Lord, help me to be brave. Hope and healing happen in the light.   Topics like shootings, domestic violence, suicide, substance abuse, racism, hatred, sexual assault, and fear must be talked about—in the Light. We can not heal if we turn our faces away from these things. Help me to courageously speak up for humanity.  More importantly, help me to LISTEN to humanity. Help me to listen and respond when it is just a whisper. Help me to listen and respond when I hear a scream. Help me to listen and respond before it becomes an act of desperation.