Tag: death

The Potent Word

 

Can I spit poison into your life just by speaking words into your skin? Or can I speak life into your life by cultivating peace into your heart? Words. So important and potent, life threatening and life creating. We must never forget the power of words, their motives and intentions, their power and potency. I marvel at how easily we curse one another. Every day there is someone trying to clean up the blood they spilled by gossiping behind someone’s back, or begging for wishful deaths to go back to its chamber of meaning. Never tell someone you wish they’d leave this earth, or that you hate their guts. You may indeed be charged with murder before the words escape your mouth. I often wonder why I have taken on the task of this kind of bravery, to become a professor of words. To become part of a community where the next murderer is just one page away from me. Perhaps I have a death wish, releasing words into the air with only the hope that they will bring back life. I publish each post with shaking hands, a trembling finger; a focused mind. Carefully crafting and considering the words I put into the air. Writers. The bravest people I know. Managers of the potent word.

If My Books Shall Die – Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge

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Hello there love bugs. So, today’s Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writer’s Challenge as hosted by Colleen and Ronovan, is on the topic of OBSESSION (*imagines drum sound in head*). But, here’s the thing guys, I couldn’t really find, or think, of a quote on obsession I really liked. Soooo… instead I wrote a poem.

If My Books Shall Die

If my books shall die

I have labored in vain

I have swam through centuries

And ran years in someone else shoes

I have climbed mountains

And crawled under valley’s

only to bleed death

I have carved my obsession

Into paper using invisible ink

If my books shall die

 

I do not wish to live

on the tops of your shelves

Or faced down on kitchen counters

Or underneath your children’s beds

I do not wish to live

In the palms of your hands

Or standing next to Grandmother’s old picture

In the living room

Grandmother is dead

And I do not wish to die

I want my books to live

Not on top coffee tables

But inside of you

 

When I am dead

No longer among the living

Crack open a book written by me

And feel my breath on your skin

Hear my voice resurrect from inside an ancient pen

Watch my tongue dance

See my lips move

And witness passion soar from beyond the grave

 

I read James Baldwin today

And realized I was carrying his bones

In the crooks of my arms

 

If my books shall die

Then my words did not really contain life

But if my books shall live

What are you waiting for?

Go to your bookshelf

Resurrect me

And carry

My bones

 

******

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For Rose – A Story in a Single Image

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The city never afforded her body the chance to be this intimately part of creation in the way to which her eyes were now experiencing. The sun danced splashes of yellows on her skin and the light immersed her body into the landscape. Forty-two acres of earth welcomed Chelsea until her eyes were not big enough to hold all of it at one time. The sun seemed to come down from the sky to personally greet her and she felt a closeness to the heavens like never before. It was as if she could reach up to the sky and capture the wings of angels in the palms of her hands. A treasure of luminaries in a bowl of black dirt. The only sounds audible were locust and grasshoppers that leaped through the air like children playing hide and seek with the clouds and the growling motors of cars racing by. The land did not reach any homes on the right or the left for at least a mile or two nor were there any houses in front of her. Chelsea remembered feeling lonely and yet the way the trees stretched its branches wide reminded her of a mother’s embrace. Only Forrest stood across from her, a gate closed her into her grandmother’s inheritance, and community spoke like laughter beyond Sara’s womb. She bent her knees and crouched closer to the ground, plucking handfuls of grass from the rich dirt. She had to touch it to make sure that it was real. How could something so beautiful be the result of something so painful? What Grandma Rose left to her would nourish generations of children and her heart ached that Nana would not be here to drink glasses of lemonade on the front porch of their country home or eat tomatoes fresh from the garden. “Rose”. She said it below a whisper and let the smile crease into her face and wrap itself around her cheeks. It had been weeks since she smiled. Nana always knew how to do just that. Amazing how she consoled her even beyond the grave. The woman let the emotion wash over her and the tears race down her face and drip from her lips. The sun bowed its final curtsy before lowering itself into sleep for the night and Chelsea cried for the last time. Her tears all courage shaped in her throat. Finally, the grief had come to an end.

Stop Wasting Time

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You get up. Go to work. Complain at work. Blog at work and complain about blogging. Count the seconds until the day is over. The day is over. Go home. Make dinner. Kiss the wife / husband. Kiss the children. Complain about work tomorrow. Eat dinner. Go to bed. Get up. Go to work. Complain at work. Count the seconds until the day is over….

Has it ever occurred to us that there is more to life than just existing? How many of us can honestly say that we enjoy every minute of time we have in a day? By “enjoy” I do not mean spending your days partying like a rock star, going to clubs, getting rich or die trying. I mean as in to appreciate, or to value. Yes, your career or job may not be what you want at this time but you are there for a reason. It could be because your smile puts a smile on someone else face. Could be because your “Good Morning!” warms someone’s heart. It could be because your “weirdness” is not weird at all. If only the world was just as crazy as you are, maybe it would be in a far better place. If only it carried your light.

And what of those in-between moments? When your on lunch, what are you doing in that time? Are you reading and nourishing your mind? Are you studying for something? Are you seeking to be a better person today than you were yesterday?

And what of it when you come home? Are you cherishing those moments or complaining about them?

It would have been nice to have our expiration dates tattooed to our chest when we were born. To have written on our birth certificates:

March 12, 1956 – September 9, 2020

That would have been nice but it would have also made our lives a lot different than they are now. Many of us would be far better people and seek to live far better lives. We would give more, and we would care more. Except, this isn’t reality. The covenant we make to die when we breathe our first breath does not come with a date. And when its time to go, and our life flashes before our eyes, the years we wasted we are going to desperately want back. Do something today that is going to actually mean something when the dust settles and the gravediggers are singing your song.

I’m Sorry

death
it’s sting
produces a humility powerful enough

to find itself a home
even inside the heart of the one

who holds the cup of “I’m sorry’s”
hoping their voice is sad enough

to produce the kind of sympathy
that peels back the brick

that found itself a place

inside the gut of the bereaved
the lump
waiting inside their throats
is this “I’m Sorry” strong enough?
“I’m sorry”
makes me feel guilty
because I know that it is not enough,

in fact
it almost sounds cliché
how can this routine “I’m sorry”

ever guarantee the sincere apology I feel
for the woman
who lost her husband in the hands of doctors

with spines like jellyfish,
the inconsiderate “I’m sorry”

floating out the window of the hospital,
where his breath left it’s good bye on the table

without warning
didn’t want to wake her sleeping gorgeous
so he left in the middle of the night
just to see her smile one last time
for he knew that she would smile

in her dreams

Or the man
who lost his brother with the split of atoms
like storms breaking through to the clouds
like a mother’s arms spread wide enough

to capture his smiles in a bowl

but aint no rainbows today
cause grief
it convinces us that the world

has ceased existing
and molds its rotations to the contours of our hearts

“Why are you sorry?!”
screams the confused silence of my bones
or the unflinching expression of a man’s face

after a life-time of catastrophes
tainted love
chocking dreams

and memories like the scenic route to civil wars
& he wears it all

with a walk like a stone cold killer

and a face fit for poker
but his heart is pale with grief
I know
cause I heard it in his smile
he laughs
but only because his body weeps
too weak internally

to die physically too
so when he grieves
and when she grieves
when their pain is too deep

to find alongside the outline of their faces
too far to find within the pages of their past
but close enough to smell in the sorrow of their loss
in these bags
filled to the brim with all their stuff
what do you say
when the air isn’t pure enough to breathe
and a routine, “I’m sorry” is simply not enough
to convince them

that the world

still spins