Entropy

Entropy

The fact is

I’m lazy:

indolent, lethargic, sluggish,

idle, torpid, apathetic

slothful:

the whole Roget’s accumulation.

My words are flabby,

from lack of exercise

and my image-maker’s on the fritz.

Too much sun—or

not enough. Too few

walks in the rain

and long boring drives

in which phrases bloom

and fireworks ensue.

My carefully-crafted act

is crumbling and

I no longer dare 

to fling my words into the void

and myself after them

in the entropy-defying

high-wire act

called poetry.

Departures

Departures

If I must go

(and they say I must)

let me go with

laughter

bubbling round me,

with remembered good times

and inside jokes reverberating

through the room.

Drown out the medical beeps and burbles;

and camouflage institutional walls

with bright chatter

and brighter visions of who we were,

who we are, and

how much more we can be.

Let me slip away

in the midst of the party,

before the drinks run low and the talk

gets serious.

But remember this--

no matter where I go, or when--

let it be with your smiles,

your faces, your words,

your laughter

always by my side:

the best of all companions

on whatever journey.

Good Intentions, Resolutions, and Resignations: Part 1.

I know I'm supposed to be making resolutions on all the ways I can improve myself and the world around me, but..I don't usually carry through on those things anyway, so, this year, I have resolved to resolve (as in 'clear up') the remaining expectations I have of myself, at the ripe old age of 67.

I am never going to learn to ride a bike. I missed my window of opportunity due to a broken leg when I was 8. By the time it healed, I was too embarrassed to admit I'd never learned and it quickly became one of those 'someday' things that kept getting put off. I no longer bounce when I fall. Bike-riding is now off the table.

In the same vein, I am probably never going to regain my youthful level of fitness. I may exercise under duress, but I am never going to willingly run or lift weights or play sports. Goodbye golf clubs, tennis rackets, exercise mats...No, thank you.

I am never going to complete even a tenth of the projects I have materials for.  Somehow, over the years,  I have convinced myself that I will draw, paint, embroider, weave, quilt, collage, bookbind, print, construct, sew, compile, photograph, or learn about any number of things. I am an excellent salesman when it comes to this sort of thing. Either that, or I am an extremely gullible consumer of my own fantasies. I am officially giving up on almost all these vain pretensions. Materials go to UpCycle. Efforts go toward accomplishing a chosen few of these aspirations.

I am never going to use one hundredth of the recipes I have lovingly copied from, or dog-eared in, my vast collection of cookbooks. Nor will my clipping file ever be converted to neat index cards in my gorgeous wooden file box. I will accept the fact that I will continue to read cookbooks till the day I die, but, unless I am inspired to actually make the dish immediately, it ain't gonna happen. Cookbooks shall become recreational reading and I am not compelled to save and file anything.

I am never going to have an orderly collection of photos. The trunkload of family pictures, past vacations, and (regrettably) unidentified people and places will remain as they are: an occasional afternoon saunter down memory lane, with a desultory sorting into envelopes labeled with the approximate year and location. I would love to HAVE all these converted to a neat row of photo books on the shelf, but I don't want to organize the photos enough to actually MAKE them.

In short, I'm copping out on New Year's resolutions this year in favor of a good strong dose of reality. This list is barely a teaspoon from that bottle: there's plenty more where that came from. However, you will note that none of my resignations involve writing. That I shall continue to do...and herewith, another sample:

Good Intentions

I am surely on the road to hell;

I recognize the paving.

In fact, I think

I own the truck

and all the equipment

required to resurface

this slippery and sloping

path to perdition.

I’ve been at it for a long, long time:

books I meant to read,

diet resolutions,  junk removal,

aborted dinner parties,

the poems never submitted,

the classes that I failed to take ..

the multiple colors of my misled life

coalescing in one great mosaic of regret,

with a purposeful double line

leading to the flames.

What Remains

After the hoopla,

the cards, and the lists and the shopping,

the anguish

of choosing gifts for all and sundry;

after the baking and parties and eggnog,

the cookies and candy and

the well-documented visits to Santa;

after tree and lights and music,

the midnight magic of a semi-darkened church

with its candles and carols and greetings;

after the perfect storm of people, paper, tape and tags

that we call Christmas

is finally done…

When the last child falls asleep,

sticky-mouthed and cranky

from too much of everything;

when the last airport shuttle has departed,

and the final car abandons the driveway;

when the guest room is empty,

and the boxes crushed,

and the last strand of ribbon

trails out of the trashcan;

when the tree lies, dry and exhausted,

at the curb for pickup,

its ornaments boxed and stored;

when normal comes back from its Christmas vacation…

What remains

is the memory of  a baby

and the promise and the hope He brings.

What remains,

even when the world returns to black and white

from the red/green/sparkly snow-globe of December,

What remains,

like a warm, sweet treasure in our hearts,

even in the depths of disappointment, 

discouragement, and dreary day-to-day,

What remains is this truth, this wonder, this blessing::

He is here, and dwells among us.

A Poem for Christmas

I honestly cannot remember if I ever posted this, but this week, when I heard the Canadian prime minister speaking to the Syrian refugees who had arrived in Canada, his words struck a familiar chord, and I looked up my poem from last year. Here it is:

Poem for Christmas

I know the story bits:

no room at the inn,

a stable, wandering kings and

a star to follow; shepherds, lights

in a dark sky;

history and prophecy,

an evil king--

angels, sheep,

cows, and donkeys.

Then, camels!! And that star

converging on a nothing

town like Bethlehem....

This is a Radio City Music Hall

extravaganza, missing only cute puppies and kittens.

Stories! Signs! Wonders!

And the icing on the cake--a baby!

Whoever wrote this knew how to grab an audience.

Drama ensues.

But what’s really going on? Nothing.

No saving, no miracle,

no lesson, no evidence

that this is anything but an ordinary child.

(The halos were painted in later.)

The only voice we hear is the angel

(the Voice of God, perhaps?)

and he says, “Fear not.”

The age-old voice

of parent gentling a child:

don’t be afraid. I’m here.

I’ll protect you. Fear

not. I have happy news;

better than ice cream,

better than candy.

I’m here and you’re safe.

You’re with me, and you’re home.

God with us.

Glory be.

Saying Grace

Not one for public praying,

uncertain of my way

in the wilderness of custom,

I’d retreat to prayer by rote,

words unheard and unremarked

and almost unintelligible:

autonomic, without meaning:

triggered by expectant faces

ranged around a table,

food and flowers on the table,

china there, and silver,

linen cloths upon the table.

And an automatic prayer.

But my years of special moments,

of laughter, and of sorrow,

empty places at the table,

have taught me words that speak  

of what we feel, and hope, and long for

when we gather round a table:

the familiar warmth and comfort

of our friends around a table,

We smile and touch and hold tight

all those people round our table,                    

and share with them a gift,

a creator’s special blessing:

Grace.

A Life Worth Loving

An autumn day:

sky brilliant blue,  

yellow-orange-red leaves

crayon-bright among

the primary colors of my street.

I love this season;

I love my life, and that

is, indeed, the problem.

Not everyone has a life worth loving.

And sometimes, those who do,

lose it. 

What right do I have to sit

here in my sunbeamed house

and watch the light and shadows of my trees,

when half a world away,

someone else, who is not me,

watches windows drained

of color and life,

windows framed with fear   

grayed out with the absence of choice?

What God-whim chose

bombs and gunmen in Paris

and not here?

Why has it never been

my children in the line of fire?

I've sat in a theater;

I've walked down a street;

I've stopped for a drink with friends.

I survived.

Because I live where

those things never happen.

Except when they do.

At work, at countless schools,

at movie theaters.

Random bullets through windows.

Directed fire on campus.

Bombs in places unpredicted.

Unless everyone can live in that place

where these things don't happen,

unless the bombs and guns,

the insanity is stopped,

until the vengeful, bloody gods

that live in the horrific minds of men

are somehow satisfied,

or obliterated,

until respect for human life

becomes the norm for all.....

none of us can be sure of safety;

none of us can sleep in peace.