Month: March 2013

The Wiles of March/poem #8: Another Street Story

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It happened or it didn’t,
but the truth she had to offer us later
is that when he entered or left that house,
he forgot to take his soul.
He’d had it in his grasp earlier and then
crushed it into something
only fit to run the streets,
turned it inside out so it would do his bidding
as though he had no other resources
or ideas left.

It’s possible that sitting in the car
putting black gloves on that fit him like skin
and a tire iron at the ready
he wondered if there was something else he might do,
but it passed and they stepped out
he was knocking at the door
waited with hands at his sides
and she saw the man come out of a dark room
with cockiness a flimsy mask for fear.

And so that is when she wanted out
or told him to stop–
we’ll never know because she left out
the crucial part. It was not exactly quiet.

We were leaning against their old black car
smoking, watching some neighbors
carry groceries in.
One of us put on more lipstick,
a stolen neon coral,
and the other thought about lunch and fate

when he came down the front steps
with electric ease and a dynamite smile
took his gloves off and put them along with the iron
into the trunk, closed it with a bang.
The he made a small movement of his head,
which told her to get in.
So she did.

What he did we can’t say,
but we do know he crossed over
to another place.
We never saw his eyes the same after that;
they didn’t warm up
or even blink.

It’s been a year; almost Easter again.
We went to the Dollar Store for candy for our son.
Now we do other ordinary things.
But we light a candle for them every day.
If God knows where they are, He needs to fix that damage.
He needs to come right down and
shake out the mad mess like He did for us.

But who knows what can happen.
We have a few extra prayers if
you want one, too.

Tending the Warrior Children

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As I was walking in the upscale, gracious neighborhood, I heard what could have been gunshots. A dog barked, the traffic din continued as usual, and in the deepening dark I found myself taken back to a time when I worked with at-risk youth. At-risk translates into this: addicted, often abandoned, homeless and profoundly abused children ages twelve-eighteen. It had not been a job I expected to be offered or to take.

It had been a huge risk leaving the Detroit suburbs for an unknown future in Portland. The difficulty of finding a new job comparable to the one I had left was a harsh awakening. I had enjoyed the diversity of skills needed as manager of a home care department at a older adult services center. My caseload had been on average three hundred and fifty mostly homebound, impaired adults. I hired and supervised up to one hundred fifty employees who provided personal care to folks. One thing I particularly liked was counseling individuals, compromised by illnesses or brain trauma, and their families, often in worsening situations. Many of the people I worked with had developed alcohol or prescription drug problems, something I knew about as a recovering person.

I’d had confidence in my work and I enjoyed it. But the employment I found in Portland was not what I had planned.

When I sent my resume for a position at an inpatient rehabilitation center for youth, I did so out of real interest but primarily a need for a job. When I was hired I was stunned. And what I discovered the next four and a half years is that I had stumbled into a calling. Helping addicted and traumatized persons find healing and healthier skills in sobriety has been a passionate commitment. But in Detroit metro I wore dresses and high heels, had a nice little office with a fair amount of authority. In Portland, I gradually came to wear jeans and boots. I faced the new clients with a naïve optimism that was met with raised eyebrows and, more often than not, sneers. Not gratitude. Still, I was all in.

So, as I recently walked after the gunshot rang out in the city streets, I recalled those times, as well as a poem I had written when working with the demanding, insightful, unloved and courageous youth. I offer it here since it is a prose poem, a story of one young woman who granted me a little trust after a few months. She was a strong girl, tall and striking with multiracial coloring, untamed Afro, and golden eyes that told me stories when she would not speak. She had made progress with her addictive thinking and ghosts of the past. Or so I thought. Ever since then, nearly twenty years ago, I have wondered where life took her. Or her, it. What do we really know of these youth? Times were tough then; they are so much harder now. I came to love these kids, and she was exceptional in many ways. But did she even survive?

************

CASE#2014: HOSTAGE

After an A.A. meeting, we are simply
driving down the street,
dense shadows settling like
benign fall-out, bits and pieces of the
city’s life transformed by twilight’s
gentle deceit.
The van I drive is swaying with talk and sighs,
gossip skipping over seats and back again,
a longing for chocolate broadcast in lieu
of forbidden hungers for needle and pipe,
bottle and line.
Frail hopes of home are muffled by
misshapen laughter.
The street is nearly empty, no one is at war
and someone behind me starts humming.

So when I see you at the edge
of my eye, I am not prepared.
You are a wildling,
have drawn an invisible gun,
A .22 you murmur,
and are shooting out the street lamps,
aiming at bland storefronts,
methodically making choices:

skip that, this is history,
the bar has got to go,
and your left hand shields your eyes
from rainbow-brilliant lights
that beckon passersby.
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I speak your name once, twice.
It floods the small space between us,
vanishes like vapor.

You are moving in slow-motion,
a graceful mime, the sound of
gossamer bullets dropping from your lips.
I call louder and think you hear me
for you nod and pause, alert.
Behind us the humming crescendos
into a song but you say to no one:

And now the shotgun and hoist
your specter weapon to your shoulder,
fire at one, two windows
then fall against your seat.
Your face is immutable and fearless;
eyes are hard and sheer as you
gaze into the sudden rain.

Lost in gangsta paradise?
asks one of the girls
and more laughter
floats and tangles
with a soft scream of tires
as I round the corner, followed by
a steady beat of hands clapping and
the chorus of an old Dead tune.

Finally we arrive and I park.
You jump from the van
and blend into the jumble of girls.
The rain has stopped. I breathe
the earthen-scented air, scan
the sky for a star.

But you break away, stride to the center
of the parking lot, take exacting
aim once more.
Five cars are lined up
against a brick wall and you shoot
every one, and each is given
a name, those who forgot and left you,
humiliated, betrayed and forsook you
too many unspeakable times.

I walk towards you in silence,
then stop as
you swing around
point your ghost weapon
right at my chest, eyes aflame
then frown, drop it, hands raised.
Your head droops, disconsolate,
a beautiful sunflower grown too fast
for the strength of its stem.
You run to me, pat my
upturned palms twice,
blink and smile, walk out
of darkness and though bright doors,
urging me
to hurry in to the warmth.
I press my heart quiet.

It is finished, your fevered pain,
the dominion of terror,
emptied now of its heat,
of searing yet unseen tears.
For tonight.

 

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Being Here is a Dream of Love: the first story

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“Remember when you could take a step and be carried above the clouds? The worlds below and above would change into something new as you travelled. It seemed like a giant safety net was always there. And all around us were others, moving along, some flying and diving. And we spoke nothing but understood.”

Radya chattered away as she inspected the tiny yellow petals of a dandelion she had found by their shack. She shouldn’t have picked it–there were no others around–but it was so homely, but she liked that. Bright and round, like an orb of sun, it was worth admiration.

She found Lanay shaking out the extra water from a shirt. They were at the river the second time this week, washing themselves and their clothes. There had been more rain than usual, so everything had been muddied.

Radya reached up and tucked the cheerful flower behind her sister’s ear. “Guess we will smell good after all this washing.”

“This mess–just a nuisance,” Lanay said. “Yes, of course, I remember that much. But what we need to talk about today is the possibility of going somewhere drier and warmer. Dusty air would be delightful after so much mud and slime.”

“Back to our doomed Ketterin, by any chance?”

Lanay threw her a look. She knew she missed her ordinary life there, the school, the friends. So did she. Her younger sister was more naïve, but surely Radya had to know they were not going back there. Ketterin was the place they were least welcome, a city of scientific institutions and ideas that verged on militant, of technological wonders to dazzle the poor brain. People were getting used to plugging in every apparatus and entertainment to be functioning and alive. More and more were absorbed in the unreal of this world, whether electronics or other material magic. Whatever numbed them to the greater needs of this planet beckoned. She had watched friends languish in increasingly small and singular mind-body spaces and it scared her. She felt the pull, herself. It was so easy to forget.

“Ketterin? Of course not. The barreness made it too hot; trees were taken when it wasn’t necessary. Besides, you know why we left. It wasn’t safe. There is no turning back. No, I need good even heat. The rain forests here either block or absorb the sun’s energies. I feel less like myself. I want the sunlight to cover me like it used to–remember? Light that never diminished, even inside gradations of dark within slits, foldings and tunnels.” She caught herself then, and scanned the woods. There was no reason to believe they weren’t okay here, but who could be certain? Who that they didn’t discern might hear or see them trying to survive here? But nothing felt wrong. “South, maybe New Mexico or Arizona. But we need a pass first and that will take some thought.”

Radya dug her toes into the damp earth. “We are here because of me. I was not silent enough and the wrong ones paid attention. But I don’t understand why they can live without memory of home. I can’t stop thinking of it. They need to remember what they have chosen to forget. They know something is missing. We could all be happy…”

She walked into the green-blue Botha River; cold water nearly numbed her feet. The currents swirled between layers of rocks and left traces of sweetness. She picked up an oval grey stone and put it to her lips. The water sang to Radya of the mysterious spring and with that came otherings, those bright-winged bearers of kindness. The momentary entry into her soul’s home base clarified her mind.

She brought the rock to her lips, then took it to Lanny. She placed it on Lanay’s cheek. “Here, the elements kiss you and give you gentle heat. The water is well, sister. But not for long; it will grow sour. We need to leave before summer’s end. The pass holder is Jacques Armente. He will know what to do.”

The stone was so warm on Lanay’s skin it filled her head with humming. She took Radya into her arms and held her close. “Little light, thank you. I know what you say is true. But beware your words even here. We are growing in number but not yet enough. We never know who is our enemy.”

“But I do.” Radya pulled back and looked at Lanay deeply until their eyes blurred and became deep pools of shimmering space. She entered Lanay’s consciousness and took them beyond, to the spinning colors and most radiant darkness, music radiating from every even imagined movement, all beings of beauty connected by the universal family.

Remember, Radya intoned without speaking. Do not forget we are creatures of universes within universes. We have no enemies save who we decide to make enemies while we are here. This is a dream of love. We have been gifted these bodies to bring the One back into this earthly consciousness. We will find our way. Be at peace, sister.

Lanny felt her hands loosening their grip on her sister’s arms and she fell away, eyes wide but focused. “Stop, Radya! It hurts to recall what we cannot fully become here! Why must you still be in possession of the knowing? Let me be, at least for the rest of this day.”

Radya felt a heaviness shadow her, but she gave her attention to the woods and saw birds nesting and birds desiring to fly higher, heard  animals seek nourishment and rest, felt the air thicken and stir as more rain gathered on tails of wind. But she wasn’t ready for the music that roared in like a powerful chorus. Radya held her hands out to catch it as her human eyes sought the sky. Yes, she was young here but perhaps that was why she was less ready to accept defeat in this place. They still had ways and means; here there was time.

She pointed toward the celestial spheres that were not quite visible to the human eye. But she saw, and knew there were others, too, with their eyes raised, and some looking back. “Lanay, look.”

High above the trees spun a fiery circle emanating every color of the rainbow as it flared. It revolved, twisted and turned into the infinity sign, a manifestation of the One. It transformed into an everlasting and inestimable ribbon of light, then spun brilliant white-gold filaments that spread to every destination and soul, a phantasmagoria of light radiating perfect love.

They stayed close to each other but it was not fear that rose up, but relief.  The thrill of ancient joy. The energy they needed was coming through, was enlivening every sinew and synapse of their human bodies and brains.

Lanny spoke first. “I so easily forget I am more than this flesh. The veil lifts despite my stubborn resistance. I do remember why we are here. And we are responsible for what happens next on this path.”

“Yes,” Radya said. “We let love speak. We simply help the others to remember the souls we all are and will ever be. We are the fortunate ones; we can retain consciousness.”

Radya watched the last of the great light diminish and float into a far distance that, in truth, was so very near with its dauntless love. The eternal Presence invigorated her. She and Lanay could get on with their work.

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