Tightrope Walkers

1895, “The Tightrope Walker” by Jean-Louis Forain (1852-1931)

tight·rope (tītʹrōp´) noun 1. A tightly stretched rope, usually of wire, on which acrobats perform high above the ground. 2. An extremely precarious course or situation.  “I am always at the beginning,” said The Buddha, on being asked what life was like. Hello 2015. Here we are: at the beginning again. Accidental acrobats. On this tightrope twined… Continue reading Tightrope Walkers

Reggie, my heart therapy

He sees me June 27, 2014. He loves a freshly cut lawn. He does a down-dog-stretch before squeezing through the rectangular flap of a door. Outside. Sniffing a path, he finds a patch of sun and flops onto his side. Lying still for a minute, he soaks up the warmth then rolls onto his stomach.… Continue reading Reggie, my heart therapy

Quote: Issa, Japanese poet and willower

Does Issa speak of longing? His tears? Or continuing, despite the tears? I first read these lines a handful of years ago. When I was too attached. Unwilling to go on without— My beautiful boy. I was unable to save him. The smartest doctors in the world were unable to save him. And then, I couldn’t bring him back. No matter how hard I cried,… Continue reading Quote: Issa, Japanese poet and willower

Think of the “Like” button as a “Support” button

Happy stories, sad stories Happy or funny stories compel people to “Like” and “Share” them. Inspirational, uplifting and amusing stories sometimes go viral. That’s the incredible thing about the internet. It can inform, inspire, entertain, and connect us. But, it is counterintuitive to “Like” mournful stories much less “Share” them. Isolating further the one who is sharing… Continue reading Think of the “Like” button as a “Support” button

“Wanna see a picture of my baby that died?” she said.

Life had different plans The day before yesterday (Thursday, May 1, 2014), I had plans to hit the month running, or at least walking. Post the first entry in the new series I’ve been working on. And then meditate—for at least ten minutes (a day)—a personal goal I’ve set for this May. Neither happened though. This day, life had different plans in… Continue reading “Wanna see a picture of my baby that died?” she said.

Poem #30: “S”

In a dream
a small boy visited me,
golden nimbus around his face,
lucent white skin
and lustrous eyes,
green like the Nile.

His features captivated me,
but I loved his humor the most.
His laughs were musical sounds
from another place.
He stamped smiles and danced
with pure energy,
and acted out his thoughts
for me to see.
For he didn’t speak,
yet he clearly understood my words
and appeared to delight in them.

I held my dream child close,
and he knew I would love him
forever.

He circled me with joy
and ran on airspace, laughing.
Then whispered by me,
waving his hand,
Be right back.
I called for him to stay near.
When suddenly he was felled
by some unseen collision
that took his breath.

Dead?
I fell to my knees and cried
over my small angel child.
I buried my face in his whiteness
and heard unrecognizable cries
that haunt me still.
“Wake up! Please! Please! Please, wake up!
No! Oh, no. No. No…”

His glow lingered and reflected off a mist
that enveloped me and echoed my wails.
The steam wept with me for that small,
spotless, sleeping soul
dissolving in my arms—ashes.
I held nothing but myself—skin and bones.

And beside me his dust grew into a tree,
as if blown with breath
through a straw, painted on canvas.
The branches spread out and multiplied,
ready for leaves yet to come.
And in the tree’s center—its heart,
the initial, S, was engraved.
And it went up as the tree grew tall.

 ♥

In memory of my Sam. My son. My beautiful boy.
March 2, 1998 – April 30, 2007

Sam, up high

Poem #24: “Returning”

As a child, I looked
When I heard the jingle
Of my lost dog’s metal tags
Paper phone numbers fading
Blowing away
I looked
Just in case
And there she was…
Returning

Now, I look
When I hear the sound
Of my lost child’s melting voice
Footsteps on the carpet fading
Years away
I look
Just in case
But there he isn’t…
Returning 

My apologies for this snarky poem. Starting to show some NaPoWriMo wear and tear. Wrote commentary (below) to explain more.

Poem #18: “Interview”

What do you do?
I’m into haiku

Where do you work?
In my head (smirk)

How much does it pay?
Nothing, but Namaste

So how do you eat?
At a table, on a seat

No, I mean—
I know what you mean

And how do you dress?
In tie-dye no less

Do your words always rhyme?
No, and I
’m out of time

I see…so we’re through?
I am, aren
’t you?

No, just one question more
Look, I really don’t need another chore

Just tell me, my friend, why your eyes are so sad
Because…because…my son is still dead

I’m sorry, real sorry, to hear of your sorrow
Call me again, then? Maybe tomorrow?

I will…I’ll do that…I’ll try you again
And maybe then, I can ask how you’ve been