◊
Yesterday’s snow became rain
before the temperature dropped
back into the teens, so that
this morning, sunshine glistens
on the icy road over
which I walk—an eighty-year-
old man trying to find his
way during this season of
Joy to the World, while he grieves
the anniversary of
his child’s death, and ponders what’s
next with curiosity
glazed with fear, poking along
flat-footed, carefully pick-
ing his way, concentrating
on not falling, focused on
keeping that icy balance.
◊
~
… has become a joke between my sponsor and me.
“And, as always,” she says, “be curious.”
And I laugh because I’ve learned she’s right,
and she laughs because she knows I’ve learned she’s right:
that a shot of curiosity is vaccination against
all those viruses that have infected me for the past 80 years:
resentment, shame, lack of self-worth,
judgmentalism, co-dependency…
.~
Nothing defuses solipsism like a dose of “I wonder”—
wonder why that email from my old high school pissed me off for days,
wonder why I felt it was my responsibility to keep the meeting on topic,
wonder why I took an instant dislike to the woman ahead of me in the checkout line,
wonder why yesterday I felt that I was God’s gift to humanity and today that I’m a urinal cake—
shifting attention from self to subject,
neutralizing judgment, anticipation, awfulizing, expectation, and resentment.
~
Curiosity keeps me from remaining curled, like a caterpillar in a cocoon,
counsels me to explore the landscapes of my past, present, and future,
with no destination, only an appreciation for the journey.
Curiosity exercises senses I’d almost forgotten I had,
gives my racing mind a needed pit stop.
Curiosity exposes shapeless anxieties to light
where they evaporate, or (and be honest here)
sometimes spew pain previously lying dormant for years beneath denial,
erupting now in spasms of anguish until—son of a gun!—
melting into the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Curiosity is what keeps the people I admire these days young,
what brings me awe,
and yes, what keeps me laughing.
~ ~
~
The trees that can have given up their leaves—
the reds and golds you see in magazines,
(though dry and chewed and rotting with black mold)—
standing outlined against the sky: broom sticks
whose branches seem about to sweep the clouds.
~
Hard not to recall those who died this month:
a grandmother, father, mother-in-law,
Thanksgivings when their absence filled our plates.
The Ronald McDonald House Thanksgiving
of turkey, fear, anxiety, and tears,
as my wife and her sons saw my daughter
for what we all knew would be the last time.
~
Well into the November of my life,
I mourn the green and teeming dreams I had,
The gaudy colored leaves of happiness,
chewed by anger and blackened by misdeeds.
Now naked of ambition, strength, shame, guilt,
but rooted in the rocky soil of Grace,
supported by my friends and families,
I raise my bony, brittle arms to sweep
away remorse, and cry in gratitude:
Thank you, thank you, and thank you, for it all.
~ ~
**
Entering:
Heel…toe…heel…toe
trying to focus on the boots
that walk this path lined with
tan, gray, white, russet
stones snaking its way
over copper-colored gravel.
Still, the mind twists, bends, curves
with the path going around, back, between
the blue of the sky, labored breathing,
the inhaler back in the room,
past mistakes, future apprehensions,
prickly pear, barrel, saguaro cactus,
fantasies, “if onlys,”
scrunch of footsteps.
Following the narrow road of stones
toward the center of what looks
like a petrified brain
which is right ahead
and then it’s not,
spiraling further away.
Turning a corner
torso teeters, trips,
boot kicks
a rock into the path.
Voices from the past snicker
Clumsy klutz!
Kicking the rock back into place.
Walking on.
*
The Center:
Finally
three red rocks triangle
a flat altar stone
spilling painted stones, shells,
ribbons, bracelets, a plastic flower,
a wooden plaque that says:
“Too much of anything is bad,
but too much good whiskey is barely enough,”
left perhaps by someone hoping to leave
both plaque and whiskey behind.
Sitting on a red rock wondering
Where is my center?
What do I need to leave behind?
Brown rumpled hills dotted with saguaro,
prickly arms lifted as if in praise,
reply with silence
punctuated by
the cooing of a distant dove.
*
Returning:
Heel…toe…heel…toe
trying to focus on the ground beneath the maze,
the silences between
the ripples of wind, a cardinal’s whistle,
yellow palo verdi blossoms, azure sky,
sunlight on sweaty skin,
overhanging mesquit branch that
grabs a shirtsleeve like a past sin.
Stumbling again
kicking another stone again
booting the rock back into place again,
breathing to Thich Nhat Hanh
(breathing in, I calm my body,
breathing out, I smile.)
circling, looping, spiraling,
remembering the center—
The soul? Love? Divine Spark?
Face before you were born?—
circling, looping, spiraling.
Gazing over russet, white, brown, tan
stones to the exit
except it’s also the entrance—
accept it’s also the entrance—
to life’s labyrinthian journey.
**
~
Along the white walls,
we lounge in black chairs
fiddling with iPhones,
flipping through magazines,
Or sit at round tables
scattered like planets
in a mini-solar system,
hunched over computers
or in my case
a moleskin journal.
~
Under the dealership’s framed
five-star rating for satisfaction,
a woman whose glasses frames
match the color of her blue book-
mark purses her lips, lost in
a paperback world of
broad-shouldered men
and black-haired vixens.
~
Two chairs down, a white-haired
guy —green polo shirt, khakis—
swaps a newspaper for
a magazine, trades that for
his iPhone, gets up, goes
to the lobby door and
stares through the window
before sitting down again
to play with his beard.
~
At another table, a gray-haired
woman in jeans and a flannel shirt
is scrolling through
pictures of kids or cats
(I can’t tell), until
Sonny, the Service Manager
calls, “Wilson!”
She rises.
“Talk to you for a minute?”
She leaves with him,
returns a few minutes later,
sits down, sighs, says
to no one in particular:
“Well, I’m going to be
here a while longer.”
~
At the other end of the room—
past a guy in a dirty
baseball cap, his computer
speckled with stickers
(I thought Yeti was a snowman),
And two gals in tan jackets
sitting at the same table
but ignoring each other—
a woman in a gray raincoat
with large silver buttons
paws through her leather handbag.
Tanned, with blonde hair,
probably dyed, large hands
and arthritic fingers
adorned with silver rings,
she looks up, sees me, smiles.
Embarrassed, I burrow
back into my journal.
~
Sonny returns, calls, “Fiori?”
The white-haired guy jumps up.
“All set. No hurry.”
Fiori exits into the lobby …
and for a palpable moment
The rest of us leave
our separate worlds,
finally looking at one other,
connecting through our need
to hear that voice
of authority tell us,
“You’re all set!”
~ ~ ~
◊
Through my window, a September slant of sunlight
softened by shadows cast by hemlocks in the hollow
seems a plush carpet inviting me to take off my shoes
and walk barefoot into a golden world.
◊
Summer sun glares, remorselessly highlighting
weeds I failed to pull, dents I’ve put in the car, windows that need washing.
Winter light is weak and pale, helpless against the darkness
always hovering on the horizon, a constant reminder of mortality.
◊
To someone who’s spent his life caroming
from one extreme to another, a ping-pong ball
sent back and forth by whoever I’m trying to please today,
◊
September says, “Live in the interplay
of light and shadow,
of cool mornings and warm afternoons,
of tart cider and sweet corn,
of raucous crows and cooing doves,
of grief and grace.”
◊
#
Police sirens fade as I pass through the
memorial gate to an empty quad,
where morning sun reflects off the windows
of old brick buildings, deserted now of
the footsteps and voices, the ambitions,
anxieties, astonishment, fatigue,
confusion, gratitude, egotism,
disappointments, hangovers, and regret
usually throbbing throughout the halls.
Even in the quiet of the morning,
a deeper silence seems to emanate
from these buildings, a collective wisdom—
coalesced and alive—which assures me:
when all is said and done, all shall be well.
#
~ ~
Thank God for another chance to fold a fitted sheet,
another chance to butcher a banjo tune,
another chance to win at Wordle.
~
Thank God for another chance to make a perfect cup of hot chocolate,
another chance to discover the perfect hot sauce,
another chance to pick the perfect pen.
~
Thank God for another chance to stroll in springtime through a carpet of pink lady slippers,
another chance to walk in autumn through golden bracken and red maple trees,
another chance to snowshoe in winter across a snow-covered pond.
~
Thank God for another chance to slow dance with my wife in front of the fire on a winter night
to Patsy Cline singing “Sweet Dreams,”
another chance to admire my granddaughter casting a blood worm
into the Androscoggin River on a summer afternoon,
another chance to decorate our Christmas tree with five generations’ worth of
ornaments.
~
Thank God for another chance to shed the ten pounds I’ve never been able to lose,
another chance to read “Lord of the Rings” for the umpteenth time,
another chance to write a poem that just might actually be one.
~
Thank God for another chance to keep my mouth shut when I don’t have anything to say,
another chance to learn how to take a compliment without trying to convince you
I don’t deserve it,
another chance to stop trying to figure out who I think you think I ought to be.
~
Thank God for another chance to say, “I was wrong,”
another chance to say, “I love you,”
another chance to say, “Thank you.”
~ ~
“My seventies were interesting and fairly serene, but my eighties are passionate.”
—Florida Scott Maxwell
◊
Yes, but not like some geriatric stud
who’s still able each night to rock and roll;
Instead, imagine some gnarled tree in bud,
A blazing fire reduced to one red coal.
◊
Three barred owls in a tree, a rainbow,
My sleeping wife, a grandchild’s happy voice,
A doo-op tune, dark chocolate, will now
Bring forth ejaculations of clear joy.
◊
But then I have these night sweats full of fear.
Each day brings new regret for my old wrongs.
I rage for reasons that remain unclear
and weep at maudlin films and country songs.
◊
The plot gets more intense the more I age
As life’s last chapter moves towards life’s last page.
´◊
◊◊
Duende:…[T]he “bitter root” of human existence, what Lorca referred to as “the pain that has no explanation” … and the source of much great art.—Christopher Maurer
◊
After the rain, the trees are weeping,
tears glistening in the setting sun.
And suddenly
◊
I feel the fierce force flowing through my veins
along with the red cells and white cells and platelets,
to and from the heart (the center of grief, I heard somewhere).
◊
I wail once more my family’s demise:
my father’s frightened eyes, my mother’s waxy hands,
my daughter’s last labored breaths.
´◊
I recoil as if for the first time at
old failures, sins, embarrassments, what-ifs
that float before me like dead fish.
◊
I watch my friends diminish—
cancer, Parkinson’s, heart problems, Alzheimer’s—
I shave an old man’s face.
◊
This week, I’ll pray, write a poem, plant flowers in the family cemetery, meet friends,
take grandchildren for ice cream, work in my garden, make love to my wife,
tenacity momentarily victorious.
◊
Still, coursing through my triumphs like a deep and dark river,
demolishing and nourishing as it surges to the sea,
Duende.
◊◊
The Geriatric Pilgrim: Traveling the Landscape of Faith and Grief 