What the Rain Gives Us

The weather is changing again, from bright shining sun and happy carefree lazy days, to a more challenging and ominous and uncomfortable environment- but also more romantic. We choose to see it like a fountain, not a flood. And we receive it like a shower, not a spill. When it touches us, we touch it back. Rather than tense up and wish it off, and run and cover and hide and curse. Rather we touch it back, and we thank its cold acknowledgement, its drops that awaken nerve endings. We thank it for its smell and its sound affects and its shininess, and how when words are exchanged beneath it, the words are pulled differently, pulled out like secrets, pulled out like whispers, protected by the drowning out. And then we receive the words differently too, receive them like words with hidden meanings, spread apart and interwoven, glorified by the splattering percussion. So when we speak beneath the rain, we share a moment ethereal and vulnerable, and one with trust.

And in the rain, we get to know ourselves better. We introspect, we hibernate, we feel less stimulation to throw ourselves into the world and touch and feel everything with extraverted freedom, like we did in the summer. Instead we brew, we search, we internalize, we sit, we watch. And we feel more. The rain says to me, what do you feel? And it gives me permission to feel it. If the sky can cry, then so can I, and I do like to cry.

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Gethsemane

Well I saw him in the garden
The one they call Gethsemane
He said when I was in the garden
Did I have a single enemy?

And I remembered in the garden
He took the blood debt of them all
Loved every one with equal passion,
Took every burden great and small

And I remembered in the garden
They came with weapons as for war
They came expecting to be enemies
But he repaired the severed ear

He said if I had not an enemy
On that day of violent blood
So should you never have an enemy
Who is composed of flesh and blood.

And here we take our ideologies
And loft them high up in the air
We think they justify hostility
But he repaired the severed ear

And we hold dear to what was done to us
As excuse to retaliate,
When attacked, we’re hero victims.
When we attack, we’re hero hate

And even those who stand against the hate
Come to hate the so-called haters
Come to view them just as enemies
Now aren’t we all retaliators?

No single person can claim innocence
From forming judgments of another
From conjuring up a hostile image
Of human sister, human brother

No tolerance can end the massacre
Of grudges great in every heart,
No tolerance can cover up the pain
No tolerance can heal the scars

No tolerance, but yes the mercy
It can change us once for all
The impartial mass compassion
That bore the burdens great and small

None other body can hush the feud
None other person sheath the sword
None but the bridge of reconciliation
Between the Father and the world

I Might Know Why Too.

I just read my first of Maya Angelou:

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

Inspired, I wrote a poem about the ways I identify with her story, and the ways I’m inspired by her evolving character. The disclaimer would be that I don’t claim to have gone through anything even close to what she went through, and I understand that there are depths to African American suffering that I will never understand.

I raised myself too, in a way.
I identify with that strength.
With that understanding that you had a bad lot at times,
But you made something with it.
Learning to put your faith in your mind,
Which everyone seemed to always praise,
In lieu of affirmations of looks and charm.
The years it took to undo self-pity,
Followed by the fighter’s resolve to overcome,
And to become no longer fragile but unshakeable.
Realizing your supposed afflictions
Have granted you supreme advantage
Compared with those who have not yet tackled fear.
The courage it takes to be— adult is not it, for age has nothing to do with it—
But to be independent,
Having evaded all dependencies,
Not only familial caretakers and authorities,
But also the addictive dependencies that society tends to,
Locking themselves in prisons of security
Rather than risking the plight of self-will.
That courage, I identify with,
And I understand along with her how,
At a very young age,
One can feel eternally older than society,
And lonesome in that unshared age.

Stucko

In the stucco there were indentions and there were mountains, the indentions a sandy brown, the mountains a red, like Indian paintbrushes. I wanted to follow the awning’s arches, from balcony down to the point in the air where they hung free. I wanted to slide down them and hang on the edge of the air.

The other planes we get to divide all the time, we get to cross over from one to the next, and we are free among them. But of the horizontal planes (thinking as the illusion goes for us, thinking of a flat earth), we reside most our days on only one. We are feet creatures. Pushed into the dirt, feet first, glued to the plane beneath us. Maybe that’s the thrill of getting up on another level and looking down.

What matters most about the word, “Matter”

Why do we so critique the written word as if it were something? No. It is nothing. It is only there to describe or to imitate real existence, through the power of the mind, which can create most anything and pretend it’s real. It is there to tap into the brain’s power to create sensations and sounds and situations and emotions.

Real life is the hero. And these words, they are here to document it, or if it’s what we call fiction, it’s an abstract reflection of it. It’s all photography really. Writing is just photography. Or film or whatever.

So when I write, I struggle to get away from the page if I can, to get my eyes off those silly words, which are nothing, in and of themselves. To keep my mind with my emotions, and with my senses, to stare at the wall in front of me as I type, or to look that way while staring within. The words are only the flowers. It is the roots I want to water.

It is the same way when I pray. If I begin to think about the prayer, to evaluate whether it is beautiful or whether it is dry, then I no longer can pray, and it is never beautiful. But if I keep my eyes on the Beauty…… the beautiful words can’t stop. They just can’t. They just can’t stop because they don’t matter. It’s what they’re describing that matters.

Yes

The likes of a ground-needy creature like me

Caught in the toss of the wind, so send me.

Though I can’t fend for myself, nerves on my skin,

In the power of her majesty the ocean’s bend.

Sensitive wants of my face,

Spitting out the taste of the wind-riders,

The fast-spinning haste of tiny gliders,

Once in my eyes I am blind to my way,

I am prey

To the beating of sky,

The biting of sea,

And the eating of earth.

 

Have your way

With me.

I will lay face down, body and ground flush,

And let the particles rush in,

Till I can crush them beneath my teeth,

And mush them against my tongue,

And usher them down my throat,

And let my eyes gush with tears of objection.

 

I will lay arms wide, under the mighty gale,

As it slaps me like a stingray

And plays with my hair,

And my skirt is the sail of the day.

 

And then I will stand with the sands

Pouring out of my spread hands,

Carried and cleansed through the open glands.

 

And I’ll walk till my feet

Start to bleed at the ice of the shore,

And I’ll only walk, but the waves love to leap,

Taking my floor, pillars nothing to bear,

Throwing my soar, outstretched with no air,

Unanimous yes of the four,

Engulf me down in the deep.

One is Four

1 reigns in prominence, the Sun

2 married stars, the Sun and Moon

3 light waves generating One

4 shining brightly like the Noon

 

5 stones with wings to win the battle

5 prey birds driven from the nest

6 the Arch-Enemy when rattled

7 He one-uped him in His rest

 

8 newborn Earth beneath the Sunlight

9 rays empowering its runners

10 hurdles set to taunt the Moonlight

11 adrenaline of overcomers

 

12 fathers giving seed for nations

12 mothers bearing in their wombs

40 hours of labor, faith, and patience

50 flowers jubilant at bloom

 

1 the only whole without a count

2 the only even also prime

3 universal mystical amount

4 the double’s double, love shall chime