This poem was originally posted on April 16th, 2015 as part of a writing challenge. It seems to fit the mood I find myself in today. The day before the inauguration of Voldemort the Orange (my phrase) and his Plunder monkeys (Stephen King’s phrase).
I truly believed at my mother’s knee
That when I sang, “My Country ‘Tis of Thee”
The words I sang were truer than true
That if I bled for honor, it would be red, white, and blue.
But I’ve awakened to find a land divided
Bathed in disparity, desecration of what was once united.
I was taught at my Navy Veteran Daddy’s knee
That the Star Spangled Banner was to be honored deeply
That if I sang with truth in my heart
I’d stand united with my countrymen, never to part.
I believed in the land of the free, home of the brave
But I’ve awakened to find a land of the fee, home of the slaves.
I understood from my Grandparent’s legends
That America the Beautiful open armed beckoned
The words describing purple mountains and amber waves
Breathing life into the fruited plains of graves
But I’ve awakened to find a dying fracked rocky tops
Blackened drought plains laying desolate of crops
Where my family is from in Michigan The Rapids, la Grande
Makes me, all joking aside, a Yankee Doodle Dandy
Where the emblem of, the land I loved
Was supposed to be where there’s never a boast or brag
But I’ve awakened and I’ve found this only applies to non-fags
If you’re slightly brown skinned or poor, they turn you away
Ain’t nobody got time for that, they’ll remove you from society’s gray.
I am an untended garden, riddled with forget-me-nots and weeds
My earth has not been furrowed asunder; tilling life to the topsoil
I have grown fallow, un-supporting of life, but yet, there are some
perennials that cling to a hope of return, of vibrancy dallying
But I can only roll over in my floral nightgown, whimpering in my bed
allowing the blistering son to scorch my once glorious stance
I admit, I’ve become self-watering. I needn’t wait for the gardener
My groans of grief roil the soil, creating bitter roots exposed as lies
Everyone knows that when the earth laughs, people die.
She accepts their bodies back to her world, but I could still breathe
so I am not granted respite from the overabundant fertilizer spewed
over my once lush landscape. But, I will rise, for the weeds can’t hang on
when I forbid grasping of my rooted passion for life. Here she comes
the one that removes the rot with compassionate hands.
Here he comes, the one that scratches that spot in the very middle
She tends to me while singing lightly a childhood song forgotten
He digs deep with his grip, releasing the tainted, blighted plants
She opens the earth to expose me to the warmth of attention
He plants perennial seeds to grow through the coming seasons.
I inhale deeply, knowing that my rebirth will again grow fruitful.
My cycle continues in ample countenance to their loving attention.
I await my own fruition. I will grant only the very best of myself
to create the most beautiful garden I can create. This, is why I weep.
of the lost bouquet
It all happened so fast. Shortly before I died, a friend of mine said, “Why don’t you have a wake to see what it would be like when you’re gone?” I thought about it sincerely. I was only inspired to ask the question because several people I knew had passed from the breathing life. It’s not like I was inviting death to visit or anything. I was just curious as I watched people of all walks come to give honor to the deceased.
I’d considered mortality before when I look at the life I lead without children, without anyone to which I could pass my traditions and stories into the future. It took me several weeks before I concluded that I didn’t want to know what people thought of me. I officially opted out because nobody really wants to know how much they’ll be missed unless they didn’t plan on coming back, right?
A week later, I got sick. I went to sleep for a while. I’m not even sure what happened. I was, then I wasn’t. I tried to communicate with my husband but he couldn’t hear me. I didn’t understand. I spoke. I screamed. I tried to write to him. I watched as my friends showed up on my doorstep. I knew some of my beloveds were upset, but they buckled down to work as if their own lives depended on it.When I woke up, people I loved dearly were milling about my house. Many of them were packing up my personal belongings. Some of them were picking through my things, selecting items as mementos, while I stood in the middle of each room spinning in circles crying with grief.
There were times of visitation with my friends whom spoke tender words of compassion to my surviving spouse while hovering behind weeping eyes and choked words. I wanted to take away their pain. I wanted to wrap them into my arms, to offer them comfort as they’d done for me so often. But I couldn’t reach far enough out of myself. I was trapped in a place between planes.
While I witnessed the parade, I saw that people brought gifts, food, donations of all different kinds. I watched the place I lived become an empty shell. No decorations, no dinners cooking, no shower gel scenting the entire upstairs. I slept on the floor of my studio curled up in a small blanket-less cold ball on a smelly carpet. I tried to get comfortable, but there is no way when my life rejected me.
The next day all I could feel were spirits moving near me, but I paid them only enough notice to acknowledge they were there. I could hear the hushed tones of neighbors outside my window. I looked but I couldn’t see them. Everything took on a gray light as if gauze were filtering everything into uncomfortable dullness. I felt the press of others but I resisted their call. I wasn’t ready to leave. I wanted to make sure my beloved was well.
People I didn’t know walked into my house and started commenting about the bare walls. They expressed how they were going to change everything around to suit their taste. It was then I realized my beloved was no longer there.
With a tug that dropped me back from the window, I turned to face a tall man that looked familiar to me. He reached out his fingers beckoning me to follow. He smiled reassuringly but I held on to the breathing life. I looked out the window once more, turned back to the tall man, with a burst of courage, I took his hand. Then I wasn’t.
Cautionary sign
Here!
Let me strip naked, remove my facade,
so you can see inside of me
that I’m human
and not God
Here!
Let me wipe away my poker face
so you can peek beneath the mask
realize my barren
mundane task
Here!
Let me demonstrate how dying feels
be locked up without parole
be removed totally
life without a soul
The Pensive Woman, 1932 by a German Artist (I can’t find the name of the artist)
I rounded the corner from bronze dipped metal spoons that didn’t stir my soul
to observe a lost lamb separated by his emotions from the flock of chittering as a whole.
He stood slouched, small dreads pointing to the sky, bandana tied artfully at his temple
staring at the sculpture trying to understand something I couldn’t see; Sentimental?
I greeted him with gentle voice, encouraging interaction. I explained without pause
“I was in the other room observing several that didn’t move me because
The spirit requires recognition of matching vibrancy to vibrate frequently
Why this one? What drew you to her?” I asked the young man evenly.
He thought quick, deeply, spoke with certainty, “She’s so sad.”
“When art speaks to me, it speaks in bright colors because I’m, as a rule, glad.
Do you understand her sadness, too? She was created by a German in 1932.”
He wavered momentarily as his emotions washed his face quickly, efficiently.
For a moment, I thought I’d lost him as I waited patiently.
“She reminds me of how I felt when I learned my father had passed away.
I locked myself in my room, curled in a ball and cried to myself all day.
That he was gone was hard enough, it went against my every plan,
but I remember wondering, “Who’s going to teach me to be a man?”
His eyes looked at me just like hers. I gave him “Always Beautiful” as I abided
“You are not alone.” I comforted in synonymous tone as he’d confided.
He smiled while hefting the weight of a million gallons of un-cried tears
that will ebb and flow
wax and wane
light and darken his years.
I loved him deeply, truly
in all his pensive human beauty
as much as I admired that German artist of 1932
accidentally gifting me that one on one in bronzed blues.
Those who want the world to stop burning must first realize that it’s on fire.
Quit selling me your Jesus. Who is thick with thorns?
Don’t bleed your justification while the poor you scorn
Don’t tell me that my color is wrong, that a prison is a matter of fact
When you took away our baseball gloves and gave us baseball bats
Don’t tell me that I need to work, that I’m just a lazy bum
When you sent my job to the Philippines while calling me black scum
Don’t tell me to step up and be a father, when you took mine when I was seven
My mama couldn’t take care of me, she wept “He is watching me from heaven.”
But she believed in the Jesus you sold her that burns like a cross in my yard
She counted prayers and sang the hymns while my brothers lives are scarred
Quit telling me that I love my forty that dims the daily grind
Quit telling me I’m worthless so why should you educate my mind?
Don’t tell me that you value me just to get my vote you take away
You love me about as much as a crack baby born every day
You took away the healthcare to let my people suffer
While praising God and Jesus, filling up your coffers
You spend our money on bars and chains instead of buying books
You take away from teachers and schools, entertaining disdaining looks
Quit selling me your Jesus who is thick covered with your angry words thrown
While wearing the cross you put on your own back, you’re reaping what you’ve sewn.
I’ve met him before in this life. Just a brief interaction with my friend’s son with nothing spectacular to mention. But today was different. Today we recognized each other’s spirits to the point where we talked about things we couldn’t possibly have experienced now. Forgive, but indulge my recollection of my brief time in VietNam before I was killed by a brother triggered trip wire.
I was a Captain, he my lieutenant. We were working on an engineering project together when the explosions started. The initial shock blew out half the buildings barracks. We lost 12 men from that. One of them men we called “Mustard” razzed me and Old Time, my best friend, calling us brother and sister. They called me Squeezy because I snored loud enough they’d have to keep covering my head with my blanket to dull the sound which made me wheeze.
From the room we were working in, we could see J-Pod and Durkee run by with their rifles down. Durkee smoked as much as he could get his hands on so I’d give him mine, so would Old Time. I watched the packs lined up like carnival ducks on his helmet fly by the window.
“Okay, Old Time. We have to pack. Drop down.” I commanded as I scrambled to get my responsibility packaged into my trekker.
“I’m almost there, Squeezy. I don’t want to mess this connection. A few more minutes.” He half answered me.
“Look, Durk and J-Pod just ran by with rifles down. We don’t have a couple minutes. Pack up, now.” I commanded finishing my assembly. I rushed over to his station and started packing his gear. “Pack up. Drop down.”
“And, got it.” He said, pushing back from the table.
I realized he hadn’t even been aware of the sounds or the smells from the burning buildings until he pushed away. Realizing the gravity, he grabbed his gear and helped me fill his bag with the essentials.
“Shit, I didn’t realize…” His voice was blasted out by a shell that hit the north side of the building exploding concrete and glass into our work space. “Squeeze, you’re bleeding.” He said as he crawled from under the table where he’d ducked down. I wasn’t as quick as he was, my head was bleeding almost as much as my right shoulder which still had a sizeable shard of glass sticking out of it. He leaned over, assessed the wound, and pulled the glass clean out. “Let me help you Squeezy.”
I nodded as he jacked his pack onto his back and helped me get into mine. The strap helped ease the bleeding in my shoulder but my head was starting to swim.
“Old Time, I don’t know if I can. My head is swimming.” I protested.
“You look here. I’m not going to lose another brother. Come on.” He dragged me to my feet wrapping his right arm under my uninjured left shoulder. He grunted a bit as he realized I wasn’t moving half my body the right way. “Don’t you worry Squeeze, we’ll get to the rendezvous point.” His face was so close to mine but I was having trouble focusing. I saw him smile at me, but the fear in his eyes was deep.
“GO! GO! GO!” I heard Maxi-Pad yelling. Through the hole in the wall, I watched Max and four others rush by under heavy fire. The only reason I knew it was Maxi-Pad was because of his lilty voice. He sounded more like a woman than any of us, but nobody had the heart of the lion like him. He knew what to do almost instinctively. Although he was only a sergeant, he ran his squad like a true leader. They loved and trusted him in the way only soldiers know. I saw one of his men crumple as Old Time pulled me over the rubble.
With shells exploding around us, Old Time pulled me as I struggled to keep my feet. I knew I wasn’t long for this plane. I had to let him go. I dropped full weight into his arms forcing his release.
“I can’t. I’m done. Just go.” I wheezed as blood filled my lungs. I could barely catch a breath. My blood was pumping so fast. “I’ll have your back.” I said as I tugged my side arm from the holster.
Old Time got damn near nose to nose with me. His dark brown eyes, filled with fear also held the promise of truth in them. He grabbed my face with both of his hands.
“You sorry son of a bitch. Get up and get moving right now. Loretta would never forgive me. Get up now.” He smacked my face hard with both hands. I hate when he does that.
I struggled up to my feet. My head was swimming, my ears could no longer hear the rifle fire, just the steady pulse and a high pitched squeal of my blood running out of my body too fast. I allowed him to lift me up enough for me to use my last bit of will to move my feet towards the dense jungle just a few more steps in front of us.
He shoved the branches back, never losing grip on me as we disappeared into the heavy smell of acrid gunpowder and sloshed our feet into the barely dried ground after monsoon season. We struggled through the dense fauna, him holding on to me, me desperate to follow his commands because to disobey my inferiors command was to die.
When the wire tripped, there was barely enough time for him to turn and look me in the eye as we both breathed our last breath from the explosion. We died that day, buddy next to buddy. His left arm gone, his right arm still holding me protectively.
I met him again today in this life. He saw me and said, “Sister!” He grinned from ear to ear. “I knew I’d see you again. Man, it’s been a while.”
“As with you, my brother. I’m glad to see you again. Thanks for helping me. You did all you could. I hope you know that.”
“I will never forget it. You still owe me $5 bucks.” He laughed referring to the ongoing penny cribbage we played when we weren’t working.
“You’re not going to get it this time or that time either.” I laughed. I realized that we had to give that life up to meet again in this one. I understood right then, that we really were brother and sister of spirit.”
He’s still interested in electronic projects in this life time. I think that’s because he never quite finished that damn project in the last one. It really amazes me the details I could remember when my spirit saw him. It happens from time to time where I just know people. I’ll call him Old Time when next we meet and I’ll bet he’ll call me Squeezy.
On March 13th, 1996 at 1:13AM, Beverly Jordan passed from this world through the veil. This is to share and honor her because I have no children of my own to pass these stories down to and someone like her should never be forgotten.
Most people would start a story from the beginning, but I think her ending is by far one of the most incredible stories I’ve ever had the right to witness.
I had been up for a very long time sitting with the Martell’s at the hospital in Grand Haven (could have been Muskegon), Michigan. Gram’s beautiful brown eyes had been glazed with a sheath of white that took her vision from this world and shifted it to the next. Her mouth gaped open as if in astonishment but there were no surprises left. A machine honked and whispered breath to her reminding us all that time was an outlet away.
The newspaper my Grandpa Pat had brought in rested on the arm of the single chair that sat in the corner. I kept watch while the others went to make phone calls, rested, or grabbed some food. I picked up the paper which I read aloud. I listened to the whirs clicking moments away. I said softly after I finished a front page story that seems, even now, to be irrelevant, “Gram, you know I love you so very much. You told me the story of your heart surgery. Do you remember that?” I adjusted my seat. “You told me how you hovered above your body and you talked to God.”
“Gram, you told me that you said to him, “God, if it’s my time to go, that’s fine. I’m ready. But if you have things for me to do, let me get back to it already. I can’t do anything for my family if I’m not here any more. I’ll obey.” Do you remember telling me that story?” I stood up and laid the paper down. I walked over to her bedside and pulled her cold paper hand into my own.
“When I needed you a few months after that, you were there for me. You took me in and sheltered me. You treated me not as if I’d made a mistake but that I’d recover. You wouldn’t allow me to wallow. You gave me my life back. I got to see you in a way I never thought I would be able to because you gave yourself to me as my friend and mentor. I love you so much. But, Gram, if it is your time, it’s okay. We’ll take care of each other as we always do in our own way. Please don’t think that you have to stay if it’s time. It’s okay to let go and rest now.”
My Uncle Jake, never one for sentiment but always down for a cold beer and some good times, slipped into the room as if he’d been eavesdropping. “Ma. She’s right. You’ve done everything you could do. It’s okay. You can go if it’s your time.”
My cousin Neil, Jake’s second son, walked in just then. “Grandma, it’s okay. I won’t forget what you told me. Nobody will. You can go if you need to. You’ll be missed, but we all understand.”
We stood there silently together listening to the voice of the machines holding her spirit in her physical being. The nurse walked in to make adjustments. Jake grabbed her arm lightly and told her that he’d sign the papers to let her go. The nurse finished what she’d came in to do. Jake left with her. Neil started to cry but made no effort to hide nor wipe his tears. We joined together in our private grief not sharing what we both felt.
Everyone gathered together as the doctor came in and with very little ceremony, pulled the plug. The waiting began.
At about 9PM that night, the family dispersed with me drawing the straw to stay the night. With list of phone numbers tucked in my pocket, instructions to call if anything happened, a huge cup of coffee and a book, I sat in the chair while reading aloud. Her heart rate seemed to increase when I read as did her breathing so I continued. After several hours of another lost name, I needed to use the restroom and get a drink. I told her, kissed her cheek and left the room.
As I was returning, the nurse who had been so kind to my family told me that it wouldn’t be long, I should hurry.
As I entered the room alone, I witnessed a gray misty form fill the other side of the room. Being around my Gram, ghost stories were like talking about the weather, they were just accepted as fact. I saw this one. It was a shapeless mass about the size of a very large, although not tall, human. I could make out a head and arms, but nothing distinguishing. It knelt down and came up through my Gram’s body bearing a light that glowed like a shooting star. A sense of profound peace of mind coupled with a deep unending love filled my heart. I knew, at that moment, God existed. I also knew that she’d gone to the next realm. I kissed her forehead, holding my lips there, grasping her lifeless hand while tears fell warm against her cooling skin.
I whispered that I love her then after one more kiss on her forehead, I released my hold on her physical being to make the necessary calls. It was one of the most profound experiences of my life.
Below is a poem I wrote to honor this woman that brought me to a place of safety when I ran from deadly danger. She granted me safe haven from a toxic destructive marriage. She showed me how to rebuild into a bionic mess and how to start all over again no matter what. Although I don’t cry over her every day any more and I rarely go a day without thinking of her, she is always with me because if she weren’t, I couldn’t share this with you.
I’m not sure when this picture was taken of Gram Bev, but it’s one of my very favorites.
My Grandmother, Beverly Jordan, is the one on the far left. She bred, trained and showed dogs for many years.
Absence
There are no ballads written of the life she led.
There are no written records of the many things she said.
There are no monuments standing in Michigan’s icy cold.
There are no places left of hers but the marble growing old.
There are no public holidays where the banks close to honor her.
There are no dates filled with activities in her empty calendar; just blurs.
Still in my heart she sings to me of the lifetime that she led
Of the family lore she told to me at the night time tucked in bed
Her picture remains cherished on my dresser in the honorary place
While I dress into the nightgown she left to me while gazing on her face.
Each March 13th I cherish her, each moment with which I was blessed
All these years seems like eternity since I laid her ashes to rest.
I have failed to keep my promise, to take care of my kin and blood
Rejection by their fallacies have damned the emotional flood
With the strength of her character rising deep from my roots
She knows that our family tree bore much rotten fruit
The witness I bear to you is me giving to remember
So that ancestral love will never die, as she has, to an ember.
Solemnity spoke
When death comes knocking at my door,
bony feet with dusting robes stepping on my floor
My fleshy shell will open to allow my spirit to soar
I will no longer look at the life of the living
wishing more time for regrets and forgiving
I will return to the spirit with thanksgiving
The height of my body will no longer matter
The color of my skin no longer the chatter
The question answered, my lifeline flatter.
I will gaze with love at those who surround me
with their beautiful faces weeping around me
and I will know that my life shined brightly.
As I pass from this life unto the end
In my very last moments I will attend
to touching your cheek and saying, “I love you, always, my beautiful friend.”
An Independent Nondiscriminatory Platform With No Religious, Political, Financial, or Social Affiliations - FOUNDED 2014
Life is a patchwork of moments — laughter, solitude, everyday joys, and quiet aches. Through scribbled stories, I explore travels both far and inward, from sunrise over unfamiliar streets to the comfort of home. This is life as I see it, captured in ink and memory. Stick around; let's wander together.
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