Yes, I know that it’s been a while since my last post. A lot has happened since Good Friday. Pope Francis died on Easter Monday. President 47 ignored the Vatican dress code, played with his phone, chewed gum, and fell asleep in the front row of the papal funeral. I taught my last classes for the winter semester.
A lot has also stayed the same since my last post. President 47 is still trying to dismantle the United States Constitution. And defund NPR and PBS. And get rid of the Department of Education. And deport U.S. citizens to foreign countries without due process. And send ICE agents into schools and churches. I could go on, but you get the idea.
It’s enough to make me want to climb to the top of a building and jump.
Speaking of which . . .
Summer Solstice, New York City
by: Sharon Olds
By the end of the longest day of the year he could not stand it,
he went up the iron stairs through the roof of the building
and over the soft, tarry surface
to the edge, put one leg over the complex green tin cornice
and said if they came a step closer that was it.
Then the huge machinery of the earth began to work for his life,
the cops came in their suits blue-grey as the sky on a cloudy evening,
and one put on a bullet-proof vest, a
black shell around his own life,
life of his children's father, in case
the man was armed, and one, slung with a
rope like the sign of his bounden duty,
came up out of a hole in the top of the neighboring building
like the gold hole they say is in the top of the head,
and began to lurk toward the man who wanted to die.
The tallest cop approached him directly,
softly, slowly, talking to him, talking, talking,
while the man's leg hung over the lip of the next world
and the crowd gathered in the street, silent, and the
hairy net with its implacable grid was
unfolded, near the curb, and spread out, and
stretched as the sheet is prepared to receive at a birth.
Then they all came a little closer
where he squatted next to his death, his shirt
glowing its milky glow like something
growing in a dish at night in the dark in a lab and then
everything stopped
as his body jerked and he
stepped down from the parapet and went toward them
and they closed on him, I thought they were going to
beat him up, as a mother whose child has been
lost might scream at the child when its found, they
took him by the arms and held him up and
leaned him against the wall of the chimney and the
tall cop lit a cigarette
in his own mouth, and gave it to him, and
then they all lit cigarettes, and the
red, glowing ends burned like the
tiny campfires we lit at night
back at the beginning of the world.
By the end of the longest day of the year he could not stand it,
he went up the iron stairs through the roof of the building
and over the soft, tarry surface
to the edge, put one leg over the complex green tin cornice
and said if they came a step closer that was it.
Then the huge machinery of the earth began to work for his life,
the cops came in their suits blue-grey as the sky on a cloudy evening,
and one put on a bullet-proof vest, a
black shell around his own life,
life of his children's father, in case
the man was armed, and one, slung with a
rope like the sign of his bounden duty,
came up out of a hole in the top of the neighboring building
like the gold hole they say is in the top of the head,
and began to lurk toward the man who wanted to die.
The tallest cop approached him directly,
softly, slowly, talking to him, talking, talking,
while the man's leg hung over the lip of the next world
and the crowd gathered in the street, silent, and the
hairy net with its implacable grid was
unfolded, near the curb, and spread out, and
stretched as the sheet is prepared to receive at a birth.
Then they all came a little closer
where he squatted next to his death, his shirt
glowing its milky glow like something
growing in a dish at night in the dark in a lab and then
everything stopped
as his body jerked and he
stepped down from the parapet and went toward them
and they closed on him, I thought they were going to
beat him up, as a mother whose child has been
lost might scream at the child when its found, they
took him by the arms and held him up and
leaned him against the wall of the chimney and the
tall cop lit a cigarette
in his own mouth, and gave it to him, and
then they all lit cigarettes, and the
red, glowing ends burned like the
tiny campfires we lit at night
back at the beginning of the world.
It is the first day of May. Summer is right around the corner. In the next few months, lots of things in my life are going to be changing. (Unfortunately, I don’t see impeaching President 47 as one of the changes.). My daughter is going to be moving downstate in early July to start medical school in the fall. My son is going to be a senior in high school in the fall. My sisters have decided to sell my mom and dad’s house (where I grew up) and move about 100 miles away.
I know that life isn’t static. Whether I like it or not, loved ones grow up, move away, get sick, die. Maybe that’s what is happening right now in Washington, D. C. Growing pains. Either we’re going to be a dictatorship, or we will rise up to protect and defend the Constitution. Right now, I’m not quite sure which of those options will happen.
So, when faced with all these unknowns, I have to fall back on faith. My daughter and son are great kids and love me. The new pope will walk in the footsteps of Francis. President 47 will eventually try to do something so stupid/outrageous that even Republicans will turn against him. I have faith in all of these things.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about the changes of spring, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Look up the names of flowers that grow in your geographical location and write a poem using at least ten of those names in a poem. Also, feel free to use the names of flowers in unusual ways, such as I slipped on my ladyslippers or she hollyhocked her way into our conversation.
Habemus Spring
by: Martin Achatz
Soon cardinal flowers will conclave
as harebells ring under rough blazing
stars. This morning, I wait for trillium
to unfurl their snow wings, bless my house
as a pope is buried like a tulip bulb
in Rome. This in-between winter
and summer time, so much has yet
to happen: peepers chanting in swamp
milkweed, white snakeroot blossoming
above the roof of the Sistine Chapel.
Geese, with their clerical collars, open
their beaks, fill the heavens with trumpet
blasts as they carry the sun on their backs
into June Tonight, the grass and butterfly
weed will stretch and pray for lilacs
to fill the world with their sweet incense.
