Even When the Light is Low

I turned the clock back to the dark That’s what it felt like in my heart The midnight hour reappeared Among a few unfallen tears The hidden hand tugs on my shoulder Calls my name, but I won’t go Cuz the world speaks in poetry Just the way it’s supposed to be There is still a way back home Even when the light is low And even if my time is short Don’t tow me back to port Point me starboard, out to sea And let the tide have its way with me The hidden hand tugs on my shoulder Calls my name, but I won’t go Cuz the world speaks in poetry Just the way it’s supposed to be There is still a way back home Even when the light is low Are you weary, heavy laden? Just how long will you be waiting? The hidden hand tugs on your shoulder Calls your name, but don’t you know That the world speaks in poetry Even when it’s not supposed to be You will find your way back home And you will never be alone Even when the light is low Even when the light is low --Tom Prasada-Rao

(Written 11.7.23 as Tom endured chemo for a cancer that took his life 6 months ago--but could never take Tom's light).

On Those Days

 

On those days
when you miss someone the  most

as though your memories
are sharp enough
to slice through skin and bone

remember how they loved you.

Remember how they loved you

and do that

for yourself.

In their name

in their honour.

Love yourself

as they loved you.

They would like that.

On those days

when you miss someone the most

love yourself harder.

--Donna Ashworth

Dresser Memento

 

The keepsake I used to display of dad

was a photograph of him and me

when I was little, walking down a hall

in the high school where he taught English

rows of lockers on either side of us

like parts of the mind where memories live.

My small hand in his, we were silhouettes

against sunlight through the glass door exit.

One day I realized I am older now

than he was the afternoon this picture

was taken, which made me feel uneasy.

So, I replaced it with a whelk shell

bigger than my fist and the slate-blue color

of a storm-tossed, foamy sea. We found it

on a walk at dawn in the Outer Banks

four years before melanoma killed him.

That morning, as the sun rose above

the horizon, a hundred-strong dolphin pod

swam by close to shore, many of them

leaping from the water with apparent joy;

the splash of their bodies against the surf,

the rhythmic spray of their exultant breath

still resonates inside that spiral shell

when I hold it to my ear and listen.

--Jason Harlow 

[Jason's parents both taught at the same high school where I teach. Jason's dad died 25 years ago now, the same year as my own father died of melanoma].

Don’t Hesitate

 

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case.
Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

—Mary Oliver

[Our precious grandchildren embody and inspire joy!]

Desiderata

 

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself. 

You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

~  Max Ehrmann, published 1927

Holding Vigil

My cousin asks if I can describe this moment,

the heaviness of it, like sitting outside

the operating room while someone you love 

is in surgery and you’re on those awful plastic chairs

eating flaming Doritos from the vending machine

which is the only thing that seems appealing to you, dinner-wise,

waiting for the moment when the doctor will come out 

in her scrubs and face-mask, which she’ll pull down

to tell you whether your beloved will live or not. That’s how it feels

as the hours tick by, and everyone I care about

is texting me with the same cold lump of dread in their throat

asking if I’m okay, telling me how scared they are.

I suppose in that way this is a moment of unity,

the fact that we are all waiting in the same 

hospital corridor, for the same patient, who is on life support,

and we’re asking each other, Will he wake up?

Will she be herself? And we’re taking turns holding vigil,

as families do, and bringing each other coffee

from the cafeteria, and some of us think she’s gonna make it

while others are already planning what they’ll wear to the funeral,

which is also what happens at times like these,

and I tell my cousin I don’t think I can describe this moment,

heavier than plutonium, but on the other hand,

in the grand scheme of things, I mean the whole sweep

of human history, a soap bubble, because empires

are always rising and falling, and whole civilizations

die, they do, they get wiped out, this happens

all the time, it’s just a shock when it happens to your civilization,

your country, when it’s someone from your family on the respirator, 

and I don’t ask her how she’s sleeping, or what she thinks about

when she wakes at three in the morning,

cause she’s got two daughters, and that’s the thing,

it’s not just us older people, forget about us, we had our day

and we burned right through it, gasoline, fast food, 

cheap clothing, but right now I’m talking about the babies,

and not just the human ones, but also the turtles and owls

and white tigers, the Redwoods, the ozone layer, 

the icebergs for the love of God—every single 

blessed being on the face of this earth

is holding its breath in this moment, 

and if you’re asking, can I describe that, Cousin, 

then I’ve gotta say no, no one could describe it

we all just have to live through it, 

holding each other’s hands.

—Alison Luterman

My November Guest

My sorrow, when she’s here with me,

     Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

     She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.

     She talks and I am fain to list:

She’s glad the birds are gone away,

She’s glad her simple worsted grey

     Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,

     The faded earth, the heavy sky,

The beauties she so truly sees,

She thinks I have no eye for these,

     And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know

     The love of bare November days

Before the coming of the snow,

But it were vain to tell her so,

     And they are better for her praise.

--Robert Frost