Category: Inspiration from others

Church Visits

Poem & photo by Elizabeth

CHURCH VISITS

We brought you this poinsettia—
would you like it in your room?
Your drawl rich as poppies
introduces you and your children to my mom
who smiles, tries to remember if she knows you,
dementia shredding whole stands of friends each night.

Where would you like me to put it?
No directive in your mist of questions,
knowing Alzheimer’s has already clear-cut her choices.
You sit beside Mom’s bed and talk
with a comfort never shared in our family—
your husband in the reserve, children,
teens really, open as sky beside you.

But when you say your surname, Church, I cringe,
expecting Mom’s grooved tirade against religion
yet it builds a temple pointing to the majesty of blue
through which our planet spins within its womb of stars.

You are the woman I refused to be—
soft-bodied, eyes averted, submissive to spouse and god—
while I’m independent, direct, decisive,
yet am weary of my strength, worn
from years of keeping myself and others alive.

In fact I’m drowning in competence, longing to shed my life and slip into your rose-glow skin reflecting your life’s devotion to faith, service, listening presence, as you teach your children this steadfast path to kindness. Within your sphere of serenity, I pray: Throw me a rope, please, over and o–

Thank you to the editors of Melancholy Hyperbole for first publishing this poem.

Simultaneity

Poem & photo by Elizabeth
SIMULTANEITY


When you touch me—I am
breath rather than a woman breathing.
One thousand wings, a single beat,
split sky with summer rain.

Breath rather than breathing
fills the empty glass.
Split sky with summer rain
reveals horses carved in stone.

Fill the empty glass
with wine of roses, lilac, heather;
reveal horses carved in stone
but not hands that formed their symmetry.

With wine of roses, lilac, heather,
toast grass that fractures concrete blocks
but not hands that formed the symmetry
of streets concealing streams.

Toast grass that fractures concrete blocks
beside the woman reaching toward you;
on streets concealing streams
she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp.

There is a woman reaching toward you;
her face is old, possessions few,
as she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp,
and I see you, I see myself within her mask.

Her face is old, possessions few;
she came to laugh—she came to love,
and I see you, I see myself within her mask
reflecting how the earth breathes.

We came to laugh—we came to love;
one thousand wings, a single beat
reflecting how the earth breathes
when you touch me.

Thank you to the editors at Scribendi for first publishing this poem.

Forewarned

photo by Elizabeth
They are a heartless nation, that is certain. They have made some of their people servants — yes, slaves! 

We have never believed in keeping slaves, but it seems that the white people do! It is our belief that they painted their servants black a long time ago, to tell them from the rest — and now the slaves have children born to them of the same color! 

The greatest object of their lives seems to be to acquire possessions — to be rich. They desire to possess the whole world. For thirty years they tried to entice us to sell our land to them. Finally, their soldiers took it by force, and we have been driven away from our beautiful country. 

-Ohiyesa's uncle, Santee Sioux

Ohiyesa

If Not For Silence

Poem & photo by Elizabeth

IF NOT FOR SILENCE

In their mad Sufi dance words whirl off tongues

loose as hot snakes as we struggle to speak with rudiments—

mostly we quarrel, walk away, but sometimes manage

to weave them like a lovers’ embrace beneath that open-voweled moon,

which vacillates between  the startled suck of air through pursed lips

and a night so long that, shy, she slips beyond the sun’s unerring watch.

Words electrify nerves till air feels like a panther lapping our luminous skin,

but it is silence that exposes our fiery hearts to serpentine tongues,

silence that would strip our marrow if not for the pulsing muteness

of flesh kneading flesh, of snakes and stars and moon-shackled seas.

Thank you to the editors of HOT FLASHES 2 for first publishing this poem.

To Think

photo by Elizabeth
A person doesn't need to go to college to learn facts.
He can get them from books. 
The value of a liberal arts college education is that
it trains the mind to think. That's something you 
can't learn from textbooks.
If a person (has the) ability, 
a college education helps develop it. 

Albert Einstein  
(from "Einstein: His Life and Times" by Philipp Frank)