A Bridge of Asses

At Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads, Kerry posted a Sunday prompt, whereby the clever can write a Tetractys, with a rhyme scheme I cant summon the brain power to replicate here. So I will try Option Two: to write free verse about The Bridge of Asses, a topic which sprang fully formed in my brain the minute I read the title.  It is actually to do with Euclidian geometry, and isosceles triangles, whereby the angles at the base equal one another. Not in my world.


They stand at intervals
along the Bridge of Asses:
the chauvinist,
the alcoholic con man,
the rageaholic
and the true love
who was, unfortunately,
also a commitment-phobe.


One of them wears
a scowl,
surveys the list of essential needs,
and crosses out feminine products
because a wife can always
"make do."
'"Women are for
cooking and cleaning,
and they're all crazy,"
he tells his ten year old son.
For certain, his wife
was crazy -
till she left him.


One wears
a large leather Mexican hat
and a  leer.
(Someone please hand him a beer.
And a match,
so he can burn down
her store
for the insurance money,
then split.)


The rageaholic
blames his rage
on his missing leg.
This begs for pity which,
after a time,
makes you want
to say "Get over it
and see what you have,
not what you lack"
but of course
you cant,
and soon 
he is lacking you, too.


The one who was
her one true love
was a beauty,
a pain-dark soul
who longed to fly.
She promised 
to love him forever,
and did.
But unfortunately
he could not be happy
with one woman
"when there are so many others
out there" he needed
to explore.


The angles
on each of these 
isosceles triangles
were never equal.
The one who felt
she was lacking
was not.
But it took a long stint
of being alone, and whole
and happy
to figure this out.


Okay, I admit I had fun with this. A poet's revenge: writing about them, later. (My ex never looked more horrified than the day I threatened to expose him in print:)) A caveat: I do know, personally, and have met and read about so many more very beautiful, compassionate, wonderful men. They are all married to Somebody Else. Go figure. But it is heartening to know that they exist.

Griefwalker

Long, braided pigtail
down the center
of his back,
eyes that see, a smile,
an air of calm,
he lifts the paddle high,
then dips it deep.


The canoe is hand-hewn,
of fresh cedar,
caulked with tree sap and resin.


The bow parts the waters.
On shore, tree roots
overhang the bank
and line the shore,
dark sentinels,
as he glides past,
forest as sepulchre.


"To truly love your life,
you have to embrace death,"
he murmurs,
as he paddles along.
"The crucible of
making human beings
is death.


"The cradle of
your love of life
is knowing that it ends."


So, today,
may I love the lake ripples,
the rounded hills,
the summer day,
the open door,
the bee at the flower,
the creak of the porch swing -
may I love my life -
just that much more
than usual,
knowing time is fleeting,
and the arc of the planet
is tilting me 
ever closer
towards
Nirvana.


I watched the Canada National Film Board Griefwalker the other day, which was like a meditation, so calm is the wisdom teacher , Stephen Jenkinson, of Toronto. This man, who takes his wisdom from the Old Ways, speaks, writes and teaches living deeply and dying with awareness, through the Orphan Wisdom School.  Stephen has made it his life's work to change the way we die from denial and fear into the understanding that death  is an essential passage, a part of life. Being conscious of the finite nature of life helps us to live much more consciously and be more fully present while we are still here.

He has also written an interesting looking book or journal for dying people, titled How It All Could Be: A Workbook for Dying People and Those Who Love Them. Cool.

On This End of the Phone

google image

Mary's  prompt at Real Toads is to write a poem showing two points of view. I couldnt resist writing the conversation my son and I have been having the past two weeks. One of us thinks he is dead. (You can't make this stuff up!) Check out Toads for other less astral takes on this prompt.




His voice is portentous, soothing, reassuring.
I know immediately that he is somewhere else.
"I'm speaking to you from the astral plane. 
You're dreaming,
but when you wake up you will remember 
this conversation.
You will be getting some bad news,
and then you wont see me for a while.
But it's okay. I'm all right."


Listen. Listen behind the words.
Assess what is really being said. 
Push those roots down into the earth.
This is the time for steadiness.
Be a tree.


"I'm awake," I say. "I'm stirring my coffee.
Where are you?"


"You think you're awake
because we're meeting
on the astral plane,
and on the astral plane
things seem very real.
I don't want you to be upset,
but I called to say goodbye.
I'm dead. I made a soul decision
to not go on. This planet
is too dark for one
as beautiful as me."


Really listen. 
You have always been afraid
this day would come. 
The first thing: his safety.
On the other phone, I call his worker,
who goes right over. 
He is hospitalized,
very annoyed at being routed 
from his blissful visit to heavenly realms,
in the depressing confines 
of the psych ward,
surrounded by people 
not in the same realm he is.


"I was so blissful, saying goodbye," 
he complains.
"I'm dead. I'm in the realm where dead people 
aren't sure if they're dead 
and think they might still be alive.
I don't know what's happened 
to my physical body.
Why is everyone freaking out?
I haven't gone anywhere.
We're still chatting on the phone.
What's your problem?"


"I hesitate to ask, but......
how are you holding the phone?"
His laugh is his usual startled cackle.
His laugh is still the same.
We both crack up.
But he still thinks he's dead.
"How do you know that's not possible?"
he asks me.


"I am gathering you don't intend to do 
anything physically to yourself?"
"Oh, no, all of this is internal.
I will exit the planet at will. 
I decided to stay
a little longer, 
to go to the Pink Floyd concert, 
and say my goodbyes properly.
I plan to enjoy my last two weeks."


Listen to the part of this 
that you understand,
the soul exploration.
If he actually had died,
I believe he would be exploring the bardos 
he thinks he is visiting now.
But he is still very much alive,
though very Out There.
For now, this is his reality, 
his soul's journey, his quest.
The hard part, for a mother, 
is accepting that, 
allowing that,
understanding one has no control 
over someone else's Trip.
Hoping that things do not get 
even more difficult
before they return to 
what passes for normal 
on any given day.
Hopefully not 
his actual absence from the planet.
Hopefully he can continue 
his explorations 
understanding, at some point, 
that he is, in fact, 
still in his corporal body.


Just listen, as you have listened 
for twenty years
to the questing, the wondering, 
the exploring, the suffering, 
the pain, the euphoria,
the impossibly endearing utterances
of this very beloved son,
who talks to me from frequencies
that grow ever so faintly 
more distant,
and yet, more close
as the years roll by.
Listen, and pray your tree-self
will not topple
under the weight.


"What will my Heaven be like?" he says.  
"There will be wild geese, 
beautiful natural environments 
such as waterfalls, 
mossy rock formations 
and mighty groups of trees, 
and all my loved ones will be there 
(and you really will).  
I will have 10,000 wives, like Krishna.  
I will be radiant with absolute Bliss.  
I will be all knowing.  
I will experience everything 
in the universe simultaneously.  
I will stand on a summery lawn, 
blowing soap bubbles with children.  
I will meet beings from other Realms, 
such as unicorns, nymphs and mermaids.  


I will hold intimate conversations with all of you.  
I will spend eternity in the Buddha Land.  
I will be a million Buddhas playing together.  
I haven't even begun...

After you exhaust your time in Heaven, 
you gradually enter the 'Rest Stage', 
where you get a great vacation 
while you wait to be reborn.
  
You have to understand 
that the laws of the universe 
keep us together, literally, forever!!  
Why not be wise and radiant like me?!"


Why not, indeed?

More Dogs

This is Lori's Lukey, Jasmine's brother. He is the sweetest dog on the planet. Lukey is all about the love, as Lori always says. Lori took these photos on our very doggy weekend. She also took a couple of shots of humans too, which I neglected to do.

Lukey's bad little brother Blakey, who is so cute we cant help grinning dotingly at his antics. Pup passed the torch to him, and he's doing his best with it:)

Stephanie's little man Chase, who is feeling his fourteen years. 

He is such a sweet little dog.

Whoa! How did these humans get into the pictures? Lori got these shots of a very happy Stephanie with her WONDERFUL fiance, Gord. We just love him, for making our girl so happy, and for being such a great guy. He did all the chores on my To Do list. (Men approach our house at their peril. There are always chores that require male skillsets.)


Sigh. It was such a good weekend:)

Silly Goose

Beau is quite strict about wanting her oats by 5 p.m. If I am late, she will make sure I know it by encroaching on the birdseed feeder. I had better get her to the barn, 

before all the chickadees miss their supper!

The Tree In Me

The Hanging Garden Tree,Tall Tree Trail, Meares Island,

a tree I identify with very much

The prompt at Poetry Jam is one of my favorite topics: 

Where is your forest?  Cool!

Inside my body, out through 

the bottom of my feet,

my roots go down, down into the ground,

holding fast to the center of the earth

when everything above ground

is toppling and turmoil.

They curl around knotted lumps of tangled tuber,

suck moisture from the mossy canopy, 

send it up up up 

to drip off my topmost branches,

helping the leaves, the fronds, the ferns

unfurl and thrive,

keeping us all

alive.

In the middle of my body 

is its trunk.

I grew it there

so I could best withstand,

strong and steady,

to bend but not to break,

when the tsunami comes

and washes all away,

I know my trunk

will steady me

and stay.

You can hold onto me

when the ground shifts

beneath your feet,

for my inner tree 

has learned endurance -

how to Simply Be,

in the face of all distress,

grows still and strong,

while others ride the wind,

clamor chaotically,

I feel a tree

unfurl

inside of me.

Inner vision

image from google

The prompt at Poetry Jam this week is "the blind leading the blind". 
This woman immediately popped into my mind. True story.

She was ninety-three,

blind, and in a wheelchair.

I found her

in her back garden,

on that beautiful spring day,

and thought how sad it was

that she could no longer see

the flowers  she had planted

blooming

all around her yard.

But as I bent

to kiss her,

she smiled,

"Oh, there you are, my dear.

I was just sitting here

enjoying the warmth of the sun,

and listening to all 

of the beautiful birds 

singing.

Isn't it the most wonderful day?"

I would have thought,

loving the natural world

as I do,

that losing sight of it

would be the worst

that could befall me.

But she taught me

that beauty remains,

even when some things

one considers essential

are lost -

as long as the soul

continues to

look for

the gifts.