exuberant

energy - now

restrained

seatbelts snap

car doors slam

small hands wave

     goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

fragile figurines reappear

glass, porcelain, stone

a fox, a cat

the tiniest of turtles

upon reflection,

room found for,

a marooned

plastic pirate

I only have one voicemail -

one from four years ago

this birthday comes

and goes

with no

Happy Birthday Mama!

I push the green triangle

PLAY

from that old message,

over and over and over

… give me a call… just if you get

the chance. I’d love to hear your voice.

                                                                                              Oh, sweet thing.

                                                                                         What I wouldn’t give

                                                                                            to hear your voice

                                                                                               one more time.

Why don’t I have

every voicemail you

ever left me?!

                                                                                     Because I always picked up.

I need to remember this.

This fact that changes everything.

Not that you are gone or that I miss you,

but the guilt, the agony, the lie

                                                                 that I didn’t care enough to save your messages.

When you called,

I always picked up.

                                                             PERSPECTIVE

What a gift

this knowledge.

To live in the present

enjoying the NOW

no awareness of sorrow to come

Like your very last phone call

Hey Mama!

Hey Adam!

What’s up?

Nothing much. How about you?

All good.

And from your perspective, you were,

All good.

plans made

boxes mailed

goodbye letters sent

only phone calls left to make

parents, siblings, partner

one by one by one

What were those last

“goodbye - talk soon”s

like for you?

the lies you told

so we would not realize

this was the last time we would hear your voice

                                                                                               your finger pressing END

                                                                                       on every relationship you held dear

I am not able to go there

without tipping over into

the horror of it

a place I told myself I would never go

yet, you called it peace

the releasing of one thing

the beginning of another

In the end, it’s ultimately about

					                      PERSPECTIVE,

like only having one of your voicemails

because,

                                                                                       I always picked up.

========================================================

It is embarrassing to keep writing about the same thing. Adam. I miss Adam. I wish Adam were here. I wish Adam hadn’t chosen to die. Yada. Yada. Yada. Then I have to process the WHY? of embarrassment. Because I should have it figured out by now. He’s gone. It’s done. Move on. Write about flowers and birds or even politics for the love of God.

I keep coming back to this idea of Perspective. Life is lived in our heads. People are joyful despite the most dire of circumstances and vice versa. I have so much to celebrate yet still wake up with a weight on my chest that makes it hard to breathe. When I talk to Adam, it is often with anger and resentment. “How could you do this to me? To us?” I long for the day when I reach out, touch his picture, and say, “Love you, buddy. Thank you for the gift of your life.” That feels a long, long way away.

Perspective requires Patience I suppose (:

PS It was Jane who actually said, “I always picked up.” I snatched that phrase for the power it held to explain so much of what we wrestle with.

so like mine that we have to

check our mother’s writing on the back

Alice 70’ or David 72’

playing in the yard with the dog

Tramp, a mutt who walked us to the bus stop

went on all our hikes and loved a good cow pie roll

he lived till we were both in high school

high school

you were only a year behind me

made our yearbook’s “most likely to succeed”

while I was most definitely

“laziest senior”

          See? See what a beautiful life you had?

photos of brothers - you had so many brothers

fraternity brothers

they made you an honorary member

you couldn’t afford the dues

but were the coolest dude on campus

Army brothers

Alaska, Iraq, Afghanistan, Germany, Korea, Egypt

WWDD - What Would David Do? bracelets

wise as a serpent, gently as a dove - admiration, respect

Lyons brothers

you all had the same grin

the same giggle

storytelling runs in the blood

          See? See what a beautiful life you had?

family weddings

SO many of us

so much laughter

so much love

a baby!

now two? who knew!

soccer games, dance recitals

tire swings, bedtime stories

that last flight - retirement

keys to a new home

a new uniform - Alaska Airlines wings on your lapel

a 2nd honeymoon to Napa wine country

          See? See what a beautiful life you had?

I can feel your eyes

				watching me

so much wisdom, so much patience

waiting for me to realize,

			YOU know you had a beautiful life

the one who needs convincing

is the one thrusting photos under your nose

all part of letting you go

My delightful little brother. I have never thought of him in those terms, as he was always wiser, calmer, smarter, more focused, a fabulous leader, one you turned to for answers. But when death comes to one who was born after you, it is a shock to the system. The wrongness of it lingers in every context. It changes relationships, changes how you see your own life, changes your sense of time.

she carries them

everywhere she goes

filling the world

with rainbow spheres

carried on the bounce

of giggling breath

she offers him a gentler

view of the world

he stands in the midst of them

on a beach

at sunset

love and kindness and beauty and joy

they leave soapy kisses

on his neck, nose, chin

with each

pop

pop

pop

his favorite place

his favorite time of day

his favorite things

his favorite girl

if only it had been enough

to tired legs

the checkout line

moves forward without me

shoulder sloped from

the iconic blue bag

stuffed with:

chocolate

candles

linens

under-bed storage bags for excess winter quilts

lingonberry jam

useful things. wanted things. needed things?

of course not

so little is

the tug

often a turbulent mental undertow

of wanting MORE

so few resist to any discernible degree

certainly not me

certainly not today

a tv on the wall speaks in a newsreel loop

urges sustainability:

dwindling resources

unsustainable consumption

rapid climate change

admonishes soothingly:

…all play our part. A world without waste.

such an odd thing, this message

echoing off warehouse walls

shelves of stacks of boxes

shipped by boat then by rail then by truck

so I can have a taste of Sweden

does IKEA want me to join the checkout line or

return all my certainly “not needed” items

made from dwindling resources

“Save the Planet!”

I am amused

as a self-conscious consumer in an economy-driven world,

I have not yet lost my recognition for the ridiculous

smell of piss?

they are very small

               very far down

               from a nose

how does one decide,

                                          “this is a most unpleasant creature!

                                            this is a stinky thing, that not ought to live”

                                                                                                                         STOMP!

perhaps they smell of roses,

                        buttered toast,

                         a freshly laundered shirt

perhaps a piss ant is the most wonderfully smelling creature to ever crawl upon the earth

perhaps they were going extinct,

                                             scooped up

                                             smooshed

                                                      turned into expensive perfume!

perhaps, just perhaps (shhhhh, it might be a secret)

PISS ANT is a disguise

                       a cleverly crafted conspiracy

                       by left-wing earth-muffins

                        set on saving each and every species, no matter how stinky

so, if you see me

                 nose to the ground

                 trying to catch a wiff of ant,

don’t bother me. I am conducting important scientific research.

**********************************************************************************

PS I have just been informed that Piss Ant is a reference to an unpleasant person, and it is not an ant at all. So, I did a Google thing. In my defense…

1. A type of ant: Originally, it referred to a group of European wood ants that create nests with a strong, urine-like odor, due to the pine needles and formic acid present in their nests.

2. A derogatory term: In a slang context, it’s used to describe someone or something as insignificant, contemptible, and annoying, often out of proportion to their actual importance. This usage is considered vulgar by many.

Whew, this very clever, and (to me) funny poem was almost rendered moot.

                                                              Paradoxical

a beautiful woman

with an ugly heart

so much loneliness despite

animal shelters filled to overflowing

and,

	no address to send your birthday card

a fresh picked tomato

with a rotten bottom

“fresh squeezed” lemonade without

a single lemon squeezed

and,

	a family photo without your smile

a racist proclaiming

the word of God

so much news

with nothing much said

and,

	calling your number, knowing no one will answer

The world is filled with paradoxes. Crazy things that make no sense. Things that just ought not to be. Some are awful and make the headlines, starving children in a world of abundance. Some are silly, a story told over the dinner table, how the sick cat scratched the bejesus out of the vet giving it life-saving antibiotics.

But of all the things that make no sense

       of all the things worth asking, WHY?

You deciding we would be ok without you,

is the greatest paradox of all.

from far away

early dawn inspection

cries of anguish

curses thrown hither and yon

they left only one

the finches,

       sparrows,

       wrens,

       doves, and

       starlings

devoured each and every one

      (except one)

despite netting, ribbons, cats

despite it being HER

                          plum tree,

                          NOT theirs
                        

————————————

fingertips stretch

toes tip

with a twist

and a tug

it falls into her hand

dusty purples, pinks, golden

plump, firm, silky smooth

held under nose

it smells of summer

the crunch

the sweet

sharp tang of childhood so long ago

each bit savored

until only the pit is left

to be sucked dry

then fingers licked

                    one through five
                  

————————————

they left the last one

the finches,

      sparrows,

      wrens, 

      doves, and 

      starlings

what lovely friends to have

small grubby

giggling racing squabbling

time for naps please

grandsons

sun rising through the wrong window

voices in the distance

the hiss, drip, drip of coffee

rumble of laughter

your laughter

my father, in the kitchen, making coffee

I am home

Is this not the best photo ever? That one tear. Those tiny hands. Dad and I both concentrated on the job at hand, after an obvious time of struggle and tender reassurances. One of the few photos I have of Dad and me. A treasure.

A good father sets the tone for the rest of one’s life. I am blessed beyond measure. Thanks Dad.

PS I chew my fingernails now. No need for clippers!

Though you simmer with rage,

I urge you,

do not boil over,

do not burn bridges,

refrain from using scorching rhetoric.

No.

Keep your cool

chill-out,

“chillax”,

as they say.

Keep it to icy stares,

the proverbial cold shoulder.

Heaven forbid,

we up the temperature

of an already,

dangerously warm planet.

This tongue-in-cheek piece originated from our monthly poet gathering prompt, "HEAT." I love finding humor in things that are completely void of humor. In this instance, global warming and our current political divides. If you can't laugh, you have lost all hope. I am still laughing.

	the to do

	the not to do

	the people you love

	the people you love to hate

A list is therapy

	I am thankful for…

				x 10

				x 20

	I am powerful because…

				x10

				x 20

	I will accomplish…

				x 10

				x 20

A list is practical

	groceries to buy

	thank you cards to write

	projects yet to be done

A list is history

	family genealogies

	US Presidents

	books banned, then and now

A list tidies one’s world. If it can be arranged in an orderly fashion, then perhaps you can control your world versus it controlling you. This is my hope as I start my day with:

get up - check

take meds - check

make coffee - check

feed cats and chickens - check, check

kiss husband -

	wait! not on the list

	come back here you!

	come back with that stolen kiss, that disorderly, unarranged passion

Great, another good list, null and void. I might as well succumb to more kisses.

My poetry class writing prompt was - Something You Love. Well, I love SO many things but a good list is right up there at the top. We only had 20 minutes, then did breakout groups to share our poems. The 20 minutes is a kind of freedom. Just put words down on the page. Trust heart and mind will meld together, and you won’t embarrass yourself too badly.

you declared we would find you

in the sunsets, cherry blossoms,

by carefully listening to ocean’s heartbeat

instead, we mourn you

frozen in time, eternally 27,

beyond beck and call, hug or laughter

never trust a voice from the grave

A sevenling is a seven line poem that is made up of three stanzas. The first two stanzas are three lines each. Both three line stanzas should contain three connected or contrasting statements or a list of three images or details. The last stanza should only be one line long and offer a twist or revelation.

I am enrolled in an online poetry class and love the challenge of new ways to say sad things about Adam! It is excellent therapy.

she is my friend

without ever knowing my name

she writes of spring:

daffodils, swallows, snakes, storms

over mountains and sea

she uses the most fabulous words

ambled, shambled, rollicking, bravado, fuzzle

smack, blaze, looming, ratted, rutted, rumbling

words that make me laugh and marvel and want

to write poems of my own

she writes of spring

of the heart as well

wonder, joy, prayer, curiosity, alive, abundance

but also of fall

and most powerfully - winter

when all is dark, gray, shuttered

shattered by grief

soul groaning

somehow, she never loses herself in the suffering

she always returns to wonder

          I am still looking for God

                    I am still finding him everywhere*

I hold onto this

the power of this incredible woman

to grow old in a world like ours

to see it clearly for what it is - and isn’t

and still find God in the midst of it all

She is a friend of the rarest kind.

* “On Traveling to Beautiful Places” in A Thousand Mornings by Mary Oliver

What is wrong?

          Nothing. Everything! I am filled with RAGE.

What about?

Such a reasonable question.

          I can’t talk about it.

But I can write about it because words written can’t be SCREAMed quite so loud.

I rage. I rage. I rage. I rage because my dreams are filled with radioactive horrors due to a movie I watched at our adorable little theater. I rage because caged dogs and pigs were put within a nuclear bomb fallout radius to “see what would happen.” I rage because an official government document states that natives of Guam “…are closer genetically to us than to mice, so studying the effects of radiation on these downwind populations would be beneficial.” I rage that it was a movie that needed to be made. I rage that I am a better person for having seen it. I rage.

I rage because the director got up in front of the crowd and begged us to call Mike Johnson, current Speaker of the House of Representatives so that the House could vote on the RECA “Downwinder” bill. I rage because the only way this happens is if enough of us beg and finally get so mad it makes this very small man nervous he might be toppled from his throne high above the radiation zone. Too much begging. I rage.

I rage that my grandson’s mother is afraid he will grow up normalizing suicide if she doesn’t perfectly parent through the aftermath of his favorite Uncle Adam’s death. I rage that there is no way to explain the grief, shame, guilt, and emotional complexity of suicide to a six-year-old. I rage that so many young men between the ages of 20 and 29 choose death rather than life as it exists on earth at this moment. I rage that my beautiful brown-eyed, joy-filled son is now a statistic. I rage.

I rage when people expect me to prioritize their emotional needs during one of the worst seasons of my life. I rage that I apologize, use kind, gentle, emotionally intelligent language, and soothe when an appropriate response would be to RAGE. I rage.

I rage that a tiny, tiny bit of what Donald Trump does and says makes sense - like making Mexico responsible for who and what flows across its borders into ours. - like rounding up known Venezuelan gang members and deporting them. - like telling European heads of state that Putin is more their problem than ours, so better pony up more cash and lots of it. I rage that I can’t have a rational discussion about these challenging, confusing issues with anyone I know because the political climate in our country is so toxic. I rage.

I rage because our current President is allowing his psychopath cronies to gut the heart and soul of the US Forest Service, a federal institution that gave me an idyllic childhood, put my brothers through college, allowed my husband and I to raise our kids on one income and is paying the bills and fulfilling the career goals of my daughter and her partner. Their mascot is a goddamn BEAR, for f#&*’s sake! I rage.

I rage because this weekend is Meteoric, an arts extravaganza a community 10 times our size would be proud to host. I rage because all these amazing people will not have me in the audience to admire and learn from their art because my emotionally traumatized social battery is in the negative digits. I rage because all those responsible for making this happen will think I don’t appreciate their vision, their heart, and their months of work. I rage.

I rage that I can’t hold a conversation for longer than a few minutes without looking for an escape. I rage that I often don’t remember what street a friend lives on. I rage that I read the same sentence over and over and have no idea what the words mean. I rage that I forget the names of people I have known for years. I rage that I had to look up my grandson’s birthday in the address book because it might be next month or maybe the month after. I rage because I have lost who I am and am confused by the person emerging from the ashes of grief. I rage.

I rage because I have become the kind of person who finds the decision between a brown cup and a yellow cup so exhausting and infuriating that I give my husband the silent treatment just because he woke up early and brought me a cup of coffee. I rage. I rage. I rage.

I rage for every reason and… for no reason at all.

I rage.

How do I grieve

the woman I worked

so hard to become?

the woman who did the work

to become self-aware

emotionally intelligent

grounded

balanced

holding all things lightly

trusting her heart

How do I grieve

the loss of a woman

who thought she knew something

had gained wisdom

wanted to give back

be a light

offer hope

a mother

who had made peace

with finally being selfish

doing her own thing

the anxious weight of parenting

behind her

adult children living their own lives

making their own choices

her job done

looking forward to what was next

ME

the woman who

declared the world good

confident a child dedicated to God

			      would be safe in His arms

How do I grieve

the fact that you still needed me

that I was so very wrong

was sure this was just a rough patch

told everyone

	you would be ok

after all,

	you were strong, resilient

a mother’s mistake, so many made

but this one irreversible

not like forgetting to pack your lunch

or missing a ballgame

this mistake is forever

How do I grieve

being a mother who now hesitates

when asked how many children she has

How do I grieve

being on sinking sand

knowing nothing about anything

caring about nothing

anymore

all confidence

all faith

all wisdom

all light

all hope

a distant memory

		belonging to someone I no longer know
     

		that woman

			is dead

		         she died

				with you

an empty shell

of who

she thought she was

of who

I believed myself to be

will a beautiful version of me

rise from the ashes of your death

a victorious phoenix?

perhaps

first, I need to figure out

			how to grieve

the loss of everything

I once was

Mac and Cheese, right out of the blue box. Green chile cheeseburgers, the trademark burger of New Mexico, always accompanied by tots and a malted milkshake. Stew dumped from a can, heated in the microwave. Tamales, also out of a can. Canned tamales can’t actually be called food, but they do bring comfort.

I prefer cookies in dough form. I spent an hour making oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, using oats in an effort to trick myself into thinking they were healthy. The first half dozen were so god-awful that the chickens got a midday treat. My butter and eggs were not at room temperature. I diagnosed this after binge-watching The Great British Baking Show, so now I know. Luckily, this faux pas only affected the cooking process, so two dozen cookies (minus 6) are down the hatch in cookie dough form.

Michael makes me a nice dinner. Doctors up a pre-made Walmart cheese pizza with whatever we have in the fridge and chop, chop, chopping the same ingredients for a salad. I eat every bit. An hour later, I rummaged in the cupboards and returned with a bowl of cold cereal. An hour after that, Michael safely tucked into bed, I dump the remains of a tortilla chip bag on a baking sheet and liberally toss pre-shredded Fiesta Blend cheese over the stale chips. Acne-like dollops of salsa are scattered about, and evening meal number three slides into the oven. Nachos in name only; they are a perfect post-post dinner snack.

A trip to Las Cruces finds me starving. The car swerves into a crowded What-A-Burger parking lot. It was the first-ever such swerve my car has made, but I am a slave to new and not improved stomach cravings. “Bacon cheeseburger with extra large onion rings, please.” A giant styrofoam cup is slid across the counter, part of my #5 meal bargain. (styrofoam? Really!? The small part of my brain that still has the capacity to care squeaks a protest on behalf of the environment.)

I head to the wall of drink dispensers and, bypassing the water and sugar-free lemonade, go straight for the Barques Root Beer, a childhood once-in-a-blue-moon treat. Pushing the cup against the plastic tab brings a gush of sugar, artificial color, and fizzy water. Ice cubes fight their way to the top and clink against my teeth as I take a big swig and top it off once more, getting my money’s worth. Heavenly ambrosia. I down the whole 32 ounces in between wiping fast food grease off my chin.

A now usual breakfast: eggs - scrambled - 3, with mushrooms, onions, peppers, and cheese. Two toasted English muffins spread with butter, one topped with honey, and one with homemade peach jam. A smoothie and cheese quesadilla makes a good second breakfast, usually needed.

Lunch is a modest tuna and crackers. The tuna with perfectly diced Famous Daves Bread and Butter pickles - HOT variety, and an extra dollop of mayo for good measure. I unfortunately run out of tuna before my packet of crackers is gone, but an almost empty peanut butter jar comes to the rescue. When the last morsel is scraped out, four crackers remain. Too few to go back in the box. Cheese! The cheese drawer has Tillamook pepper jack, and four large wedges are sliced off and carefully placed on the remaining saltines. One more is sliced for immediate consumption, extra energy for the exhausting journey back into the living room.

If people offer me food, I eat. If Michael makes me food, I eat. If I am bored or sad or depressed or angry or overcome by guilt and despair, I eat.

I eat and eat and EAT! I eat to fill the hole, the ravenous, gaping maw, the Adam-sized emptiness in the center of my being. I eat…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PS I have a large stack of GRIEF books stacked up by my bed. They all have checklists: not eating/overeating are two symptoms of grief, seemingly not at the same time. So, to all those who love me, I will not be fading away any time soon. Adam got his eating genes from someone (: That boy could EAT!

Pulling out Christmas tree decorations every year is always a trip down memory lane, and this year was no exception. My daughter and her partner were with us, and being new to the family, he was getting filled in on our family history one ornament at a time. Then Jane pulled the water buffalo ornament out of the box, and I said, “No. No. NO!!” You cannot tell Mike that story, he will think I am a terrible mother!”

Parenting is a tough job, but when it came to Christmas, I did pretty well. Santa had his place, rather smallish. Jesus had his, front and center. My kids knew Christmas was not about them. In fact, one of the things we did was get one of those catalogs where you can purchase a gift of an animal, goat, chicken, or pig for a family in a third-world country. With your donation, the animal is purchased locally and given to the family along with animal husbandry mentoring. It really is a marvelous idea and lifts a lot of people out of poverty. I highly recommend it.

So, going back in time. - What my kids especially love is pouring over the pictures in the catalog. Elisabeth always chooses chickens, and pigs are a favorite, though rather expensive. With the money allocated to each child we can only buy a portion of a pig, the rest comes from other donors. I didn’t bother to explain the nuances of this to the kids. Too complicated and not really necessary, right?

Well, this particular year, Adam has just turned four. He is an adorable little towheaded with big brown eyes and a soft, soft heart. He isn’t quite sure what is happening, but taking cues from older siblings, he looks carefully through the catalog and chooses A Water Buffalo! A Water Buffalo! Oh my, this causes a lot of excitement. Nobody has ever chosen anything quite as majestic as a Water Buffalo.

The kids cut pictures out of the catalog and glued them onto construction paper, making an ornament to hang on the tree. They talk excitedly about their animals, what kind of food they eat, and where they live. We have to look up where Water Buffalos live and why anyone would want a Water buffalo. As we pulled out maps and books, I pat myself on the back: fun AND educational! Perfect holiday parenting.

Christmas morning!!!! The kids pour down the stairs. Stockings!!! “Ok, don’t eat any candy yet! Breakfast first, then the presents under the tree.” Such excitement. Presents are exchanged with the older kids playing Santa, you all know the drill. All of a sudden, I notice Adam standing there with his Water Buffalo ornament clutched in his little tiny hands, tears pouring down his face. “Why Adam, whatever is the matter?!” We all huddle around him. Crying on Christmas, how can this be a thing? He is sobbing so hard now that we can barely understand what he is saying.

“Where’s my…. sob, sob. Where’s my…. howl. Where’s my WATER BUFFALO?!”

Well, if you are four and your mother says to pick out a gift from a catalog, and you choose a Water Buffalo, and then Christmas morning arrives with all its splendor and glory and build up, and your Water Buffalo is nowhere to be seen? Well, you might cry too. Sigh… terrible holiday parenting.

Of course, Jane can’t wait to tell Mike this story despite my protests, and at the end, he looks at me and says, “Wow! That was…

I know, that was…. Well, that was AWFUL!

my boy.

Will you be a boy

when I see you again?

“little, dirty, and bad”

fart jokes, chewed nails, soccer shirt wardrobe

You were a man,

your own man.

Will you be a man?

tattooed, towering man bun, life of the party

wise, generous, friend to so many

certainly can’t say,

don’t much care

for I know

You will be YOU

the version always meant to be

free of pain and depression

guilt, or regret

You will be YOU

enlightened

whole

finally understanding the light you brought into our world

You

will be

perfectly

YOU