there would be day and there would be night on the first day
water will not spill over the edge of this rough existence but tides will be sometimes high and sometimes low
(compressed over time
into a spiritual shape
spin factor that keeps balance and movement in the right direction
perfect union with the creator
NaPoWriMo Day 18 five answers to an unstated question
Dark too early
add gloom of cloud covered night
hanging on to the day
with cold in hallways
feel the draft
time to tinsel the town
with flashing lights
in excelsis deo
dVerse prompt to write a quadrille using the word tinsel
All mismatched socks go in a bag
(evidence that I have given up the task)
I wear the individuals until there are holes
then throw them away
buried in the bag
is a pair
long departed from each other
and I rejoice
they are together again
dVerse prompt on laundry. Here’s to the missing socks that went down the drain and didn’t get in this poem.
In a dream
God’s writing table
I’m about to fall off
Hard to stand
Your world is about to change
Indeed your world is flat
Slide east to west
Get ready for the ride
NaPoWriMo prompt on dream interpretation
My sister called saying Dad is in the hospital and probably not going to make it. I fly home the next day, well not really home, but back to Iowa, flying into Waterloo airport on a prop plane and feeling nausea. My sister meets me and we go straight to the hospital. It is late at night and quiet, only the beep beep beep of monitors, smell of tubes and clean linens, Dad on his back and breathing. I take his hand or does he take mine, either way, he has my hand and holds it up and far away from himself just like he did in life. I was never good at making small talk whether people were alive or dying and now is no different.
Years before when Mother called me from the heart patient ward of the hospital, probably the same one Dad was in, she wanted to talk about dying, how people around her would die in the night, and she was losing her faith and I couldn’t help her with what little faith I had. I only could listen to her voice as it fell further and further from the hope she had always carried with her. I often regret that I did not have the Word to give her strength, that I did not know God to help her be strong in her faith. Now Dad was dying, Dad who never wanted God. Dad, who said, “When you’re dead, you’re dead.” Dad who never talked about Jesus or told Bible stories like his mother did. Who went to church twice that I know of, once when I was baptized and when mom died. Now he was dying, and no one really had anything to say.
My sister and I left the hospital and slept at her place. Dad died on Memorial Day. I regret I didn’t have more to say.
“THROUGH me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric moved:
To rear me was the task of Power divine,
Supremest Wisdom, and primeval Love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
Such characters, in color dim, I mark’d
Over a portal’s lofty arch inscribed.