“Pray with Bones” to be Published by High Shelf Press in October

I am pleased to learn my poem, “Pray with Bones,” will be published in High Shelf Press, online and in print on October 15th. I work shopped this poem in a class this summer, and must thank my colleagues there.

I’ve always liked this poem, but could not find a home for it for a long time. It is weird–but I admit to liking it. Grief and elephants–how could I not like my own poem?

In a fit of gloominess, I was just about the withdraw ALL my submissions everywhere–to match my mood.

Glad I didn’t. And once again, I hid grief in a poem.

Thanks for reading.

#poetry#amwriting #HighShelfPress

HAIBUN for the (NOT)-SPRING OF 2020

young grain
Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

 

 

Today, the smell of the fresh cut grass reminded me of early spring, when students sit in school and begin to get spring fever. They still have a few months to go before summer break, but they feel the fever deep inside—they need to be outside. What I sometimes would tell them is that we teachers also felt spring fever, and that it is so hard for us to keep teaching adjectives and adverbs, Macbeth and Les Mis, and that we dread the testing season in April because we too need to be outside.

Every head turns to the windows if we hear the roar of that first spring motorcycle, and I have to turn my face away from the students when I hear this, for the gray skirt and muddy boots and salt stained old leather shoes and the puffy coat are just too much to deal with when I need spring as well, but I must say, “Students, settle down. We have to get ready for the big tests coming up.”

This year was the Pandemic spring of 2020, the not-spring. I had planned to write down each day of spring news: what date did the rolled up green open to leaves? What day did the first hint of crepe paper yellow show on the witch hazel? What day did the snow drops bloom? And did the trout lily survive, did the daffodil bulbs make it through the squirrel’s hunt? What’s the earliest date the chipmunks emerge, their metabolisms too fast to survive winter while awake?

 

This year, there was

no spring, only a season

of trying not to breathe.

On Turning the Big 65/ Joy and Grief During the Pandemic

On 7-21-1970, I was walking to work (one hour walk there, one hour walk home…to work two hours…) and thinking, oh man, I have to work until I’m 65? I was flipping burgers, cleaning tables, working with the public.

Folks, I am 65 years old today. To say I am stunned would be true, for how did this happen so quickly?

Wait, there were many long days and nights–but so much went so quickly!

I had a business career and then a teaching career. I am still teaching after retirement and loving it. I am tutoring, writing poetry, and living as well as I can.

***As to grief, picking up a bottle of Aleve yesterday had me crying over my sister. I miss having a sister so much. I would send her or bring her Aleve for she was in pain for so many years. I looked at the long list of things I brought to her and ordered for her and could almost chart her decline that way. At first they would just be gifts or nice things for her apartment. And little by little they became necessities to keep her from excruciating pain. How horrible to live for 40 years in excruciating pain. I’m very sorry that happened to her and I miss her a lot.

Looking back now I can see she knew that her end near and that she had made peace with this.

Towards the last half year of her life, my sister wasn’t able to read, drive, walk sleep. She had a series of agonizing painful days. Towards the very end, she forgot how to use the telephone. She kept losing things such as her phone and would be on the floor for days. She wanted to stay living alone on her own and refused living with anyone else. That was her right. That’s how she wanted it. Adamantly. Still, it was very sad seeing her not able to use the phone, remember her phone number, or even remember that if she touched the number on her phone screen she could dial her number. She got very afraid at the end because she knew she couldn’t remember things. We think it was brain cancer or loss of oxygen to the brain.

My sister was not very compliant with hospice wishes. She wanted to live on her terms and then die. And that’s what she did.

Still, she did manage to go out for coffee one last time and flirt with the wait staff. She wanted one more Christmas holiday but that was not to be, so I will make sure to celebrate for the both of us.

And life goes on on my end. I’m retired but still teaching. Tutoring. Writing poetry.

I am now the age she was when she passed away last year and I will soon be older than my older sister ever was.I know it was horrible pain for her at the end especially, but I miss my sister very much.

(Photo taken by me at the Chicago Windows, the Art Institute of Chicago, artist Marc Chagall.)

When and How to Reopen Schools: Some Considerations

When and How to Reopen Schools: Some Considerations

Deciding whether or not or HOW to reopen schools in a few weeks is not the same as negotiating a car deal. With the car deal, you might offer to pay some more to get those cool options you want. Win/ win is possible.

Not so with reopening our schools. We need to determine what is best for each school, and that might be different depending on where the school is located, the funding available for needed safety equipment, and the level of risk we are willing to take. How many deaths are acceptable of 6-year-old children? Teenagers? Adults? We need to decide what to do when teachers fall ill and have to quarantine, and we cannot get subs because they are mainly retirees who don’t want to go into the classroom. Do we DOUBLE or “TRIPLE up the students then? We have to decide what to do if the schools must completely close again in an area due to a surge.

This is not a win/ win type negotiation such as asking for a raise. Your boss can retain a great employee with a raise, and a raise can help an employee.

There is no win/ win here except for the virus going away or us getting a surefire and safe vaccine. No amount of wishing can make this happen. Magical thinking, wishful thinking won’t make it so.

It is inconvenient for everyone, this virus. EVERYONE.

However, it is not a “school” problem. it is a nationwide problem, and no matter how inconvenient it is, we cannot put this on schools, or more accurately, on the backs and health of teachers and their loved ones.

It’s not like teachers are asking for a lunch hour (ha!), or a raise. Teachers are asking for a fighting chance of living through this pandemic, based on science, not on their “convenience” factor to those who desperately need help with childcare, computer access, food access, and more. All those needs should be addressed, but not on the backs of teachers, who are overwhelmingly female.

Ask yourself, would we ask business executives to go into crowded conference rooms right now, hour after hour, expect them to clean up after each meeting, and probably expect them to buy their own supplies? No. Would we ask them to work in dangerous conditions so that folks would have childcare? No, we would not.

Sadly, frighteningly, this is not a negotiation. This is a fight for the health and lives of our students, faculty, and staff.

And that should not be negotiable. It is either safe go to back in August, or it isn’t. If it isn’t, there is a lot of work to do to address those MANY societal needs schools try to address.

If so, and we know the pandemic is still going to be around in August, we need to plan for risk reduction and to plan for what we will do if too “many” deaths occur, if a surge happens, and how we will deal with the fact that we opened schools in August during a nationwide/ global pandemic when masks have not been worn often enough because of the mistaken notion that “rights” are being trammeled asking folks to help slow a deadly virus, when people were traveling for pleasure during the lock down, when we have had no single act of positive leadership from the White House to convince us anyone has the best interests of students, faculty, or staff in mind. I know I do not trust anyone in Washington to make these decisions, for they have proven their goal is to win an election at any cost, even the cost of the health of a generation of school children and countless faculty, staff, and other school workers.

I might trust a group of concerned parents, faculty, staff, bus drivers, cafeteria workers, doctors, public health experts to make such a decision for each school, with different decisions made for different schools. 

That may even be too chaotic right now, and we may find we need to ALL stay home from school in August, as AWFUL as that would be. 

Again, it’s not a car deal, where you get pinstriping if you sign a lease today. The stakes are so very high. Our kids can “catch up” with schooling if and only if they are alive, and our teachers cannot teach if they fall ill or die.

There it is.  No win/ win. It’s the awful truth. This situation fits the definition of dilemma, truly no “good” or win/win answer.

Just a Bear in the Woods

Last night I came into bed late, as I often do, and my early- to- bed husband was chuckling, mumbling something to me about dreaming about his best friend Tommy who passed away in 2005. He told me the entire dream from start to finish and I will remember it. My husband was trying to help Tommy get home from the “hospital on the lake in the woods”and his friend kept hiding or getting stuckin a big hollow tree that had fallen down. This friend always had a wry smile on his face and it wasn’t clear to my husband if he was fooling around, being playful like when they were kids, or if Tommy was in some type of danger. Somehow he got stuck in this tree and was all covered with twigs and dirt. My husband was chuckling as he talked about it, for his friend was like a big hairy woodland creature,and I thought of how we process grief in different ways.

My husband is not a talker, and I am. I have talked and written about my grief of losing a number of loved ones, talked about it in therapy grief groups, written about it in my blog, written poems about it. Grief is an ever present companion for me, and I do verbalize it. I sometimes cry, I often talk to my grief.

My husband is very different in that respect. He’s never mentioned his mother, his dear friend, his brother, or any other loved ones who have passed. Not even his father who passed away not too long ago.

Do I dream about any of my loved ones or friends who have left? Rarely. Most of my dreams are still about trying to find a classroom or trying to find my teaching materials or about trying to find time to use the bathroom. (The teaching baggage is left over, even into retirement.). I wonder if other teachers dream about the bathroom!

I’m very touched by my husband’s dream of trying to help his friend in that big log. I’m glad he was able to chuckle about it. His friend did remind me of a big bear in many ways, and I could just see him in a big downed tree covered with leaves and dirt. I can hear his deep voice always making jokes. Tommy was the eldest in a huge family, and was the boss, the elder brother and always had what my husband called a shit-eating grin on his face.

And I wonder how our dreams will be changed by our shelter in place/quarantine of the 2020 pandemic? In the future, will we have many more dreams of hiding, being caught in tight places, of suffocation?

I continue to talk, write, sometimes even cry. My dear husband, the person I love most in this world, dreams about departed friends in big hollow logs covered with leaves, twigs and mud, and chuckling.

Thank you for reading.

(Image from the Siberian Times, public domain)

Trying to …

I am trying to remember to appreciate. To wonder. To see beauty.

I’ve begun to read again write poetry. Submit poetry.

All the best wishes to you all.

Sometimes, Poems/ A Grandfather with his Grandchildren

800px-The_Favorite_by_Georgios_Iakovidis    Sometimes, Poems

Perhaps it was his apology to his children, after all, his gentleness with and joyful love for his grandchildren.

Or perhaps it was the lessening of pressures due to not having a direct responsibility for the lives of little ones.

Whatever the reason, it helped his children and hurt them at the same time to see what might have been, what they longed for but did not have. While they did not want the grandchildren to have a lesser life with their grandfather, they felt openings, more holes in their own lives witnessing what might have been.

Some holes became filled with bad habits and some remained unfilled like Langston’s open sore, weeping then crusting over, and sometimes exploding. A breakdown. A prayer. An addiction. A hesitance. More holes.

And sometimes, poems.

 

Image in the public domain, The Favorite – Grandfather and Grandson, by Georgios Jakobides (1890)

My Father’s Death

view of operating room

UPDATE: It’s been sixteen years now.  The following thoughts and feelings about my father still hold true. My sister has since died (recently).  I still mourn my mother and have very complicated grief issues about my sister.

*  *  *

Six years ago, my father celebrated his 80th birthday. We went out to dinner with him, and he was in a very jovial mood, flirting with the waitresses, asking for extra water, ice, anything to get the attractive young ladies to come back to the table as often as possible.

At that time, my mother was in hospice, and we all knew she would not be coming home again, ever. My father had decided to stop visiting her, since my mother didn’t recognize him by name at times, and called him “that man,” argued with him, and could “do nothing for him.” Narcissistic? I think so. Her role was to take care of him, and he was angry and disgusted that she was losing herself to Alzheimer’s or dementia.

Why visit someone who could do nothing for you? As my sister, his other daughter, was quite ill herself and his sons lived out of state, I would be the one visiting my mother. I assured him that she did want to see him.

After dinner, my father announced that he was no longer going to take any of his medicines. He was sick of the side effects, he said, and he didn’t trust doctors anyway. He was simply not going to put up with the doctor’s “incompetence.” He also announced that he was angry my mother would not be there for him for the heart valve surgery he was scheduled to have, so he was not going to have the surgery at all.

A few days later, I was speaking to my father on the phone late one night, and he said he felt strange. We took him to the emergency room, where we learned he had a minor stroke.

At the hospital, we asked him if he’d like anything. He said something I cannot really write about here, but it had to do with wanting a special visit from the very well-endowed waitress that served him his birthday dinner.

After a few more days, he began to feel better and agreed to the heart valve surgery. I was speaking to him over the phone when he said…I’m feeling weird again… and as I spoke to him, he was having a major stroke from which he could not and would not recover.

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

By the time we got to the hospital, my father was hooked up to life support machines. His body was nearly convulsing on the bed, up and down, up and down, up and down. It was hideous. My niece was very pregnant at the time and was there, as was my nephew and sister, who was herself sick. My dear husband was there with me, knowing I was terrified; I am terribly phobic about hospitals, medical procedures, etc. And here was my father being forced to “breathe,” his body nearly up off the bed.

Was he conscious? No. Any chance of a recovery? No, it was a major stroke and most likely brain death already happened.

After doing blood tests, doctors found no traces whatsoever of the medicines he was supposed to be taking. They believed he stopped taking his medicines before he told us, and was not taking them in the hospital at all. He truly meant it when he said he had enough medicines for one lifetime.

My sister had power of attorney and a copy of my father’s written request not to be kept on life support.

*  *  *

The physician seemed very angry with us, told us we would be killing our father. My sister went to get another copy of the end of life papers my father had signed years before, after he saw his mother be kept on life support for a long time.

After looking over the papers carefully, the hospital agreed that the power of attorney did had the power to have the tubes removed. First, the doctor gave him a shot of morphine to be sure he would not be in pain, in case he did return to consciousness.

We left the room as the life support tubes and machines were removed, all except for a monitor that read brain activity.

*  *  *

When we went back into my father’s hospital room, we watched the monitor–in less than 5 minutes, complete flat line, no brain activity. In just a few minutes, he was absolutely, no question about it dead.

Had we killed him by having the machines turned off, the tubes removed? I didn’t have the courage to be the one to make the decision. I am glad I didn’t’ have to make the decision. I am glad he found someone who would do this for him, for I could not. I am glad he saw his mother’s end of life and decided this was not for him.

But did we kill him? Who is to decide how an older person should end his or her life–for that is what not taking his medicines meant. He had one stroke then another soon after taking his medicines.

I’d never seen anyone die before. To watch brain waves go completely flat in such a short time told the medical staff that he had been dead before, just kept alive by machines forcing in oxygen and forcing his heart to beat. Is this death, I wonder? He did not seem alive on that awful table with the tubes and the machines–it seemed cruel and gruesome.

I don’t know all the medical terms, and my memory may be off since it was so emotional.

*  *  *

But it was exactly six years ago, and dreams haunt me. Nightmares. I wasn’t even aware of the anniversary coming up, but my body remembered somehow, and the nightmares have been vivid.

Gruesome–gruesome images–the body forced up and down on life support. The memory of talking to him and hearing the stroke hit him hard, the last words he ever said…I feel weird, can you come?

* * *

Life and death issues. Who is to decide? Was it his right to decide–I simply don’t want to take my medicines anymore? At 80 years old, he’d been pretty spry up to then. Perhaps it was depression over my mother, or simply realizing life wasn’t going to get any easier for him.

Or it might have simply been his arrogance of being angry with my mother for not taking care of him, anger at the world that he had to take medicines whose side effects he didn’t like. He had quite a streak of arrogance, of feeling that he was somehow better or deserved better, and quite a streak of narcissism, if I understand that correctly–such as taking my mother’s Alzheimer’s as an insult to him rather than a heartbreak that it was.

***

And then nothing. Nothing whatsoever. For reasons I cannot go into, there was no closure, no saying good bye.

Six month later, my mother died. I felt active and wretched grief for a long time after her death. It was shortly after my best friend died, two other close friends, and my husband’s best friend. It was truly a terrible time, but the close deaths stopped and I believe I was able to grieve for my mother, my much loved friends. Broken hearted for too many deaths too close together–it was all mixed up. Who was I crying for now? Sunglasses became a good friend.

Work during the day, smile while you teach, then reach for the sunglasses as the weeping came in waves, for many long months. It’s been long enough now that I can think of my mother and friends with great fondness and happiness to remember them, while I still miss them greatly.

But my father? More complicated. I knew somehow I would have to put dealing with his death on hold, to wait a while–it was simply too much.

***

Six years later, I believe I am beginning to mourn for my father, wish things could have been different between us, that his life and our family could have been different. He was a brilliant and talented person, but very cruel and bitter at times. Hysterically funny at times. Charming at times.

In another age, he might have been a famous something or other–I’m not sure what.

But I recognize this feeling, this grief, as something I felt growing up when I would think of “father.” I believe I mourned not having a father my entire life, as strange as that sounds. I knew I’d have to be my own father, raise myself as best as I could.

I guessed a lot. Read a lot. Tried to make a science on how to raise myself properly. What I am today is a hit or miss childhood of trying to raise myself with the help of some wonderful mentors, teachers, kind adults in my life who never knew of the absolute hell of a pretend childhood. They never knew how I loved them for their mentoring.

As to my father, I so wish I could speak to him again, for time does help heal. Would we be able to speak of some matters that went unsaid? Probably not.

But I still feel it was wrong to let someone pass without a formal good bye, glad to have known you, your life meant something.

Perhaps I am telling him this in my very vivid dreams: good bye father, I am sorry it wasn’t better between us, your life had meaning. Like it or not, I see more of him in myself every year–the tendency to love drama, the silly story telling, the endless need to tell and hear stories–the love of art–the strong emotions, even some of my very weaknesses I loathed in him I see clearly in myself now.

My husband always tells me no one is all bad; he reminds me often that there can be much to love in even people who do great evil–we need to find that good, that lovable part and encourage it, acknowledge it–not just the bad that people do.

For this, I will always love him, my husband: he has helped me see that life is not all good or bad, all evil or good–there are many shades–something my father detested in people, wishy washiness he called it, all that damn grayness or shades of mambly pambliness–you either loved or hated him or nothing in between.

Sorry, father, I must side here with the living one I love. I did not love you, and for that I am ashamed and sorry. I loved you as a human being, my fellow human being, but not as a father. That was not possible for me. I pitied you. I was slightly in awe of your keen intelligence and eerie ability to hone in on others weaknesses and exploit them, but that is not love.

Six years later, I begin to say good bye to my father, six years after his death. I will not romanticize his life due to the passing of time, but am perhaps better able to begin dealing with his life and death with the help of the passage of time. Perhaps to see the good and the bad, the love, terror, humor, and sadness that can co-exist in one person.

 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Sparrows and Specular Poems–Just for Fun

Image result for sparrow images creative commons Attempts at specular poems, and yes, I probably need to leave the sparrows alone. They appear too often in my poetry; however, I do love sparrows since they STAY ALL WINTER and provide some color, sound, movement even during the dull dreariness of November, December, January, and February.

Specular poems are a form where halfway through the lines repeat themselves in a mirrored order.

Image of the American Tree Sparrow from the Creative Commons.

Thanks for reading!