Forgive Me for Wanting to Soothe

 

Sometimes a wound must stay a wound. —James Crews, “Wound”     Sometimes I remember a wound must stay a wound. Why then,  this impulse to bring you a vase of blue  larkspur, white lilies and a blessing instead of sitting with you in the dark and letting what is dark be dark.  When I am brave enough to see beyond my longing to soothe,  all I want is to be with you in the dark.  To steep together in the uncomfortable ache.  To quietly meet you in the wounded place so you know you are not alone. Perhaps I will always send you lilies,  but let me also trust how necessary it is,  the open ear, this tenderness,  this willingness to be with, more gift than any flower. —Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Chapter One

 

I love how books begin; those passages

that lead us by the hand across

the luxurious lawns, that portage us

gently up the gravel drive,

toward the manor house.

The author is still a kind host here,

anxious that we mingle

with the other weekend guests, that we note

how even the banisters are polished for us,

that we feel free to walk out

with the lady of the house and smoke

a cigarette, down the grand alley of elms.

We're not expected to have things down pat

yet, like the family tree, or the route to the old Abbey.

Nothing really happens now,

beyond the delivery of breakfast trays.

It's not scheduled to rain

for two more chapters, and no one

who matters to us has died yet.

--Mark Aiello

Famous

 

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to the silence,

which knew it would inherit the earth

before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds

watching him for the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom

is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,

more famous than the dress shoe,

which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it,

and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men,

who smile while crossing streets,

sticky children in grocery lines,

famous as the one who smiled back.

***

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,

or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,

but because it never forgot what it did.

--Naomi Shihab Nye

[Photo: Two of my favorite "sticky children".]

Let Love Do the Rest (Remembering John Lewis)

Just in case you forget

As you lay in your Sunday best

You are golden, you are blessed

Fold your hands upon your chest

You can let love do the rest

If the world is unaware

If they still think that God wasn’t there

The hour has come, they’ll confess

That you are heavens’ honored guest

It’s time to let love do the rest

When you pray, move your feet

Make good trouble, let it speak

So you said, so I’ve heard

As if the meek could inherit the earth

I still believe the words in red

As I pull on that hidden thread

Who can say what comes next

But as I walk in your footsteps

I will let love do the rest

Tom Prasado-Rao

[Photo from a long-ago visit to our home in Vermont.]

The End

 

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three,
I was hardly me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am six,
I'm as clever as clever

So I think I'll be six now
Forever and ever.

—A.A. Milne

(Video of our granddaughter and her K class reciting this poem).

Dear Peace

 

You are one of the few things left

that cannot be purchased, but

must instead be cultivated and

shaped over time, like clay aching

for the touch and turn of human hands.

You struggle up like a wildflower

in the same untamed patch of ground,

needing both the light and shadow

of the understory to keep rising up

year after year. You are the single

untrammeled Spring Beauty I saw

today, growing from a clump of moss,

white and pink-veined petals open

only slightly, like a mouth searching

for the right words to speak or sing.

—James Crews

Open Anyway

 

When I have fears that what I share

will never touch this hurting world,

I turn to the wild violets growing again

from clumps of moss on the forest floor,

how they unfurl a few limp purple

petals that seem no match for spring

winds and rain, but still somehow trust

that mining bees and fritillaries will

find them and feed—the flowers open

anyway. I still remember standing in front

of that classroom full of expectant faces

in third grade for show and tell, gripping

the thin notebook page on which I’d

written my first poem. The words swirled

and swam until I closed my eyes and

recited them by heart. It was all I had

to give, and not nearly enough, I thought.

Applause thundered through the room.

—James Crews