Broken Toys

 

Young boy, you have

all the toys,

ALL THE TOYS

you could ever need or want.

And all day, every day

you break them,

BREAK THEM

just because you can.

With each broken toy

you howl

until you receive

a new toy to replace the broken.

And you break that new toy

and so it goes. 

AND SO IT GOES.

You grow into a man.

A man who has ALL THE THINGS

you could want,

and yet you want more.

More power,

More money.

More things.

More shiny friends to show off.

But like the child you were,

like the child you are,

you break these too,

believing you need--

no, worse, that you DESERVE more.

But people are not toys,

and power and money are as fickle as as 

life,

and in one fleeting moment

you may find yourself

broken.

3.1.25 

CHM

Karma

 

This is karma you see.

How could it not be?

A country built on stolen land and slaughtered people,

cities constructed on sacred sites and burial grounds.

How could it not be karma?

Pale  male immigrants wanting the freedom to worship and live

as they wished

now, 248 years later

pale male  immigrants want to deny others the freedom to worship and live

as they wish.

Now, 248 years later

the descendants of these pale male  immigrants 

want to burn away the constitution,

outlaw science,

bind and gag women,

annihilate anyone different.

Maybe the natural human state 

is one of hatred and war,

a giant trading game  of fleeting power and riches

for a  quick and pointless death.

I'd say the joke was on them

for all the power and wealth

cannot be taken past the grave.

But the joke is on all of us.

This too, is karma.

CHM

2.28.25

Math

 Math

 

 

I woke up this New Year’s Eve morning and realized

I hadn’t seen my father’s’ face in 30 years.

 

I hadn’t heard my brother’s laugh in 28 years.

 

I hadn’t felt my mother’s arms around me in 6 years.

 

It seems I am now measuring time with a new mathematical formula.

 

Each day, week, month, year now demands to be calculated in

Losses

Misses

Silent voices

Phantom hugs and kisses.

 

This new math uses ephemeral numbers made up of

Memories

Regrets

And irreversible changes. 

 

I could get lost in these calculations, 

Subtracting and dividing out the rest of my life. 

 

But I won’t.

 

I have, after all, always been more of words than numbers-

more imagination than calculation.

 

Instead of counting my losses,

I will weave the stories of and within my life,

Letting my words breathe warmth

Into the cold, cold tallies of time.

 

12/31/2023

Down to the Wire for 2022

 2022 was a year of

barely. Writing. Anything. At. All.

Odd for me.

The lack of pen to paper

(or more often, fingers to keyboard) 

wasn't due to a lack of imagination.

My tales never stopped flowing.

Blips of news, half-petaled flowers,

odd human glances from squirrels outside my window

continued to inspire me to open up a Word doc

and type in sentences,

a paragraph,

a page.

But this was all.

Fragments.

Maybe I was too busy

with jobs

that fed me a steady stream of

beautiful words to read,

beautiful books to share.

Maybe I was devouring more stories than I could create.

Maybe it was simmering pandemic mania

that continued, continues, to pit us against each other.

Maybe it was bone-crushing shudders

that stopped me cold

every time an angry person with a gun

exercised their misinterpreted rights

to siphon unhappiness

into random killing.

Maybe it was the  smashing down,

hammering down,

of anyone

everyone

who wasn't 

a straight rich white guy

a straight political white guy

a straight powerful white guy

an straight old white guy

a straight young white guy

a straight stupid white guy

an straight ignorant white guy

any straight  white guy.

Like possession of

estrogen 

glowed from  foreheads

in red skull and crossbones

warnings.

Like possession of

melanin

was a poisonous elixir

demanding to be poured out

onto bloody ground.

Like loving who

we were meant to love

was its own plague.

Like being who

we were meant to be

was a raw, seething, curse.

Maybe I simply didn't have

enough words

the right words

to make sense of it all.

But a new year is peeking at me over the horizon,

tempting me once again to

throw my words into the void.

Maybe I will.

Box

 

On the floor

of the reddish room

sits a smallish box

where forgets are kept.

Where regrets are swept.

Where the last crumbs

of "what ifs" are shoved.

Rumors fly

that the box must stay hidden,

the insides under a tight lid

to hide our shame.

We embrace the lie that 

a perfect life means 

the box stays emptyish.

Which is incorrectish.

This life

cannot be lived

unless we fill the box,

fill the box,

fill the box,

unless we sometimes spill the box

to run trembling fingers

through the painful treasures inside.

Leave the room open wide.

Among Us

There is no surprise here.

Hate has always walked among us.

It cosplays as 

that business owner, this teacher,

that shopper deciding between wheat bread and white

(they buy the white). 

Hate wears the mask of respectability,

often adding a veil of 

"I attend church every Sunday and sing in the choir".

And like the good actor it is,

Hate whispers itself into children's ears

so it can dance among our generations.

Hate is the neighbor who makes no noise

the one who never has barking dogs or loud parties.

"They seemed so nice." 

Hate puts words into mouths:

"Well, I'd never do what THEY did.  

I'm not a TERRORIST. 

I never wanted a COUP."

And perhaps THEY wouldn't break out windows

in the literal and philosophical heart of our democracy.

Perhaps THEY wouldn't illegally crawl through those broken windows,

break into offices,

steal podiums,

smear THEIR own feces on the walls holding up democracy,

live streaming and

taking selfies all the while.

Perhaps in the dark of the night

THEY wouldn't be crawling on their bellies

through the sewers of the internet,

through the Fox-news sludge,

sipping on  conspiracy-laced 

cocktails

believing

every

vile

lie.

But for almost 4 years they believed everything else

their President told them.

Everything else.

How many of them are now unmoored from their foundations,

unsure what to believe

their social media feeds oddly empty

of their defensive posts?

But even more dangerous,

how many of them were energized,

invigorated

by the power and chaos hate can muster,

 emboldened by the 74 million

fellow Trump supporters

who voted themselves into giving

passive permission?

It does no good to change sides now.

The damage has been done,

the wounds gaping open.

All any of us can do

is hold tight to 

hope

love

truth

and wonder

how many of them are 

among us

eagerly awaiting

their next chance?

Pandemic Ponderings 1

The longer this pandemic lasts the more my brain gathers the wool of disbelief and anger at those who pooh-pooh science and history and caution, determined to bulldoze their clumsy way past a virus that --and I say this with  a lot of empathy and in some cases no small part of disbelief--couldn't care less about their jobs, their age, their politics, their wants vs their needs, or, in the case of  the protesters, about their camouflage costumes and angrily brandished guns. 

So for awhile I shall be begging your patience as I resist the  urge to rant on social media, and instead drop my rantings here. 

I am, after all, human.

 Just a Viral Springtime Dance

Humans always have been and always will be threatened most by their own tendency to succumb to their impulses. To buckle when temptation comes calling. Here in Chicagoland the weather is bright and beautiful, everything is growing green, blooming, and waving in warm breezes--spring temptation at its best.

I walked our dog Miso around the neighborhood late yesterday afternoon and in more than one backyard I saw large groups of people--far more than the house could hold-- having cookouts, playing games, sipping beers. Having the kind of springtime fun that in almost any other scenario would've made me smile. But all I could think about was the risk they were taking with their lives. The risk they were taking with the lives of those who may be waiting for them at their own houses. Or the lives of strangers in stores they may visit.

The temptation to walk out into that sunshine and resume our celebrations, jobs, studies, shopping--lives--as we yearn and need to live them is mighty compelling. It is the same temptation that wafted in the air during the Spanish Flu pandemic in 1918 when everyone thought the worst must be over...and it wasn't. There is so much we can learn from that painful history, but not enough of us willing to embrace the lessons that are there for the taking.

I can only hope that we can all resist fleeing into that spring sunshine, and come together politically, economically, and personally to support those who are facing the choice now between going to work and risking their lives, vs staying home and having no way to pay bills, buy food, etc...

Remember--the virus takes no sides, has no political agenda, no sense of time or need or privilege or entitlement. It's a mindless opportunist and it WILL take advantage of every avenue we leave open for it to grow and spread.