My granny loved Banny hens.
They are small but they can be feisty.
Just as was she.

I wouldn't save much except...
written January 22nd, 2021

There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
growing up in a small farm town
except for...

Sunsets exploding gently over the fields
colors rolling as far as the eye could see
red orange yellow pink
marking the transition
from day into night.

Sitting on that swing
hung on the swing-set
we used to play on as children.
I would sit there at night
staring up at the stars
imagining the night air
wrapped around me
like a blanket.

Books sitting outside our garage
when I got off the bus
donations for my mom's club
would I find rabbits that talked?
architect's grand visions?
those books my ticket
to far off worlds.

Neighbors and pets
in the yards around ours
part of the fabric
of my life day to day
running through their yards
playing with their dogs
wondering about their lives
so close to mine.

The plum tree
  that profusely gave us
  bushels of plums one summer
   then died.
The walnut tree that my father
   and then the squirrels thought
   was a fantastic idea.
The raspberries
   that never made it into the house
   because I ate them
   still warm from the sun.

The ballet in Chicago with my dad
magical every time
but sitting at eye level that first time
for the Nutcracker
and being taken away
by dance, costumes, sets, and music
to a fantastical world.

Playing stamps
with Grandpa
in early elementary school.
I was the quiet child
He always said
he didn't know how
to spell the countries either
but I think he really did know.

There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
except for these things
which make me smile
and transport me
to happy moments
which did exist.

How do we spend the days of our lives? What slice of the pie do we leave,
for our parents eyes? Add the time spent driving,
going to and from. Divide that up and, you get
about three hours every six months with the ones you love.
Imagine that.
                Life’s a laugh track
Like a re-run sitcom that will never get its air back.
That’s why I spin in circles at the square dance.
If the water is wet,
Then I am diving headfirst and swimming laps.
Rivers turn to roads and,
there ain’t no coming back. I slip out a straw and,
Sip the sun.
Inhale and expand my lungs until I float above,
The streets. Here lies the stoop kid,
Who became a balloon on the breeze.

How can you not see?
How can you not know?
Not hear

The manipulation beneath the concern
It may be real to them
The concern

“I just want what’s best”
For you
(For them)

“Best” is a narrow place to be
Pressure from all sides, pinning you in place

You’re just a puzzle piece
If you won’t make yourself fit in your place
They’re happy to help you cut off
                                                             the parts that don’t fit

Their image
Their vision for their world

It’s hard to resist
When they believe their own press
That they are the savior
The martyr

The truth is

They are a spider
And to be free of their web
Sometimes requires

Cutting all ties

How can you not see?
How can you not know?
Not hear

The manipulation beneath the concern
It may be real to her
The concern

“I just want what’s best”
For you
(For her)

“Best” is a narrow place to be
Pressure from all sides, pinning you in place

You’re just a puzzle piece
If you won’t make yourself fit in your place
She’s happy to help you cut off
                                                         the parts that don’t fit

Her image
Her vision for her world

It’s hard to resist
When she believes her own press
That she is the savior
The martyr

The truth is

She is a spider
And to be free of the web
Sometimes requires

Cutting all ties

I’m in the dream again:                not the one I had while awake in
the catacombs of St. Callixtus in Rome.  Where the darkness was
so impenetrable that it began to echo.  To look like the mixture of colors
that burst when you rub your eyes too hard for too long.  Like the
neuron rupture before death.  To shape and morph and become liquid.
Where the darkness cobbled itself into a physical form.

Not the dream where                    I kept seeing
flits of my mother out of the corner of my eye.  Behind
                                                                ­                               every street corner.
                                                                ­                   Every turn.  Every tunnel.  
      Reflected in the casts of the bodies in Pompeii.
Mirrored in the waves of the Trevi Fountain.

I’m in the dream where          the soil churned from the bottom to the top.  
                               where          the hand outstretched from the grave.  
                               where          my grandfather clawed his way out and returned to my grandmother﹘sopping wet, covered in thick mud, socks torn, skin sallow and jaundiced, spitting out the wire the embalmers put in his mouth, melting makeup, and ravenously hungry.  And it’s been so
                                                                ­                   long since he was hungry.  

“He came back to me, Taylor,” my grandmother tells me. 
“He came back to me.”
                                        I don’t have the heart to tell her that he’s undead.  
                                        I’m physically unable to spit out those words.
And it’s a dream and it’s a dream and it’s a dream,                   but
it just fits so perfectly.  That he would come back to her.  
That death would not be a barrier.  I can’t explain it.                It just is.  
My grandmother is a shell without him.  
The body that’s missing the limb.  
The body that keeps score.

"I'll just suffer" became my catch phrase because I learned from you that if I ask for help I will not recieve it. In it's stead I will recieve unkind words, judgment and beratement for all the things I already acknowledged my failure in and already feel bad enough about. That burden is acid in my mouth, it's the reason I can't sleep at night. Knowing that if I come to you for help another obstacle will fall before me.

I have learned that I can't turn to my parents to help or be proud of me. You will never be my encouragement or my acceptance. In your stead I have to turn to my friends, to their parents. Because you simply will not bring me to the surface when I'm drowning. You let me sink and tell me to drown so I know how bad it hurts. So instead I will reach my hands to those who will pull me above the water and teach me how to swim and keep afloat.

You're selfish, it's something I have to live with. You think that because you have suffered that others can't. And when they haven't suffered enough they can't desire or seek help. You are allowed to run away and escape the pressure but you force me to take it all on my shoulders. You are the rock and chain that drowns me.

We all are shown the oak in the acorn.
If , we wished to imagine time as a tree,
we may need to die,
as I comprehend
the process of mortality now active in me.

- but prior to my death.

Did we ever finish seeing trees
and any rooting thing,
really whole?
Below the surface of rhyme and song,
have we ever finished seeing the forest?

Chthonic intertwined mushroom goodness at the root,
breathing fruiting branches forming next in seeds,
orantic posed, uplifted branches,
asking daily bread and dew,
offering feed for men and birds,
and in my mind,
peace is overall a kind of comforting,
a kind of knowing recognitive
when sparked with mere
cast out words to wish with in time, windcast
as spore when puff ***** burst, or
as fire works, in the current
metaphor for knowing
exploding in all who
get
a feeling,
wait and see, as if
time lapse photography
my own grandmother lived to see.
Our children learn.
And I am not the last
to let that gleam seem magic,
that gleam I saw that one time, in my grandma's eye.

Falling back through time,
Like closing my eyes and leaning face first into a pool,
Gives me a jolt sometimes,
Takes a while to focus,
Clear the edges into fine lines,
But when I do,
It's me and my brothers and our flat basketball,
Laughing and shoving each other,
Before we were jaded,
A pastel version of ourselves,
Throwing water balloons from their bedroom window.

Now we're grown and darker shades,
I want us to smile and breathe like we did together then,
I want us to play basketball,
I want us to warm ourselves on the comfort of each other,
I want us all to live vehemently,
I want us all to live vehemently.

My family my family
We all love each other
Sometimes we fight though
We learn to forgive and forget
Kiss each other
Hug each other
Help each other
Do you like your family?
Yes I do!