Thursday, April 29, 2010

three-minute free write

Some days I look up into the charcoal sky
And see little whisps of white like
Streaks of milk painted by a feather
(closely, only when you look very closely)
Connecting stars and spaces, matter and emptiness.
Some days when I look around me, I see rays of sun
Peeking through the cracks in arms, the distances between people, dogs, telephone poles, cars, trains, grass blades,
Shining across state and city borders, raining on religions and on both sides of war.
Sun and sky, earth and out, we're all
in this togetherness together.
(closely, only when you look very closely)

Sunday, April 25, 2010

"The Wind In The Flag"

This Memorial Day editorial, first published in 1947, was written by the late Ben Hur Lampman, associate editor of The Oregonian.

Then do not think of them as being yonder in alien earth with little white crosses above. They are not there. For these were boys who loved the homeland -- her fields and forests, lakes and streams, her villages and cities. These were the boys who went to school here -- and would they stay away when they were mustered out? These were the boys who fished our creeks and climbed our mountains; the boys who plowed our fields and harvested our wheat; who manned our factories and each enterprise of peace. It is not right to think of them as being where they seem to be. It isn't fair. Often they used to talk of going home, and surely -- when death set them free -- surely they came. Now we who knew them well must know they are not there who are forever here, inseparable from the land for which they died. No troopship brought them home, for they came home the quicker and the shorter way. Is it the wind that stirs the flag?

Nor should we think of them as being beneath the sea, where the plane plunged or the wounded ship went down, fathom upon green fathom. They are not there. For these were boys whose laughter scarcely hid from us the consecration which they felt, and when they said that they would soon get it over and come home, they meant it, every word. She called them from their classes and the ball grounds, she called them from the desk and lathe, and from the homes that meant as much to them as to any that ever loved his home with the full measure of devotion. They never thought to see the world, at least until they might be middle-aged, but soon they saw it, island after island, port after foreign port, and many an island was fenced round with flame, and there was one port that they did not fetch. They died too soon to reach it and to hear the bands and speeches. But we who knew them, surely we must know that they were here before that, for they had said they would come home the moment that they could. And so they aren't there, but here. The ship came back without them, if it came at all, but they were here, not there. Is it the wind that stirs the flag again?

And where they kept the bargain, they who died for land and liberty, it matters not at all, nor where they seem to rest -- under the little white crosses or under the sea, or namelessly in the deep jungle. For they were boys who would not stay away when they were done with service, since often they had told themselves the first thing they should do would be to hasten home. And home they must have come. Where the trout rises or the grouse leaps into flight, or at the ball park, or along the seashore, these were the places that they loved -- these that forever are our country, and to which they, by their passing, have confirmed our title. They are here surely enough, and shall be for so long as liberty and America are one, and the flag means still what they knew it meant -- though they didn't say much about it. That was something they left to the orators and the politicians, and the editors. Do not think of them as being elsewhere. For they are not there -- who are here. Look. The light wind stirs the flag as though it caressed it, fold after fold. Look!

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Next time I fall in love
I want it to be really giggly happy love, another way
of living love. A loving myself, and loving you, and
loving us love. Not nervous love. Not competitive love, fighting love, or
brash love, inadequate love or changing love.

Bright yellow love that outshines everything
else in the afternoon sky.

Love that, like the sun, sets sometimes but rises
just as fiercly in the morning and wakes up
the rest of life.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

i have been hit. i was hiding in the woods, among the brush, admist the thick wood, where hardly any sunlight could even seep in, holding my breath, waiting, paitently, for the correct, precise moment when we could fire, fighting all false anxieties, all sudden bursts of confidence, knowing each shot is precious, timing, timing, timing. when at last i couldn't resist, when the sun shone right on our target like a laserbeam, the calm steadied our fingers and the fog of nights of waiting, standing, marching, crouching, rolled off our brains, we fired one priceless bullet. it went out with all my best intentions, my blessings, our happy memories, holding hands, sitting by the river, laughing ridiculously, the comedy club, the movie downloads, the stupid jokes, your thin lips and my thick, the hope of our whole being behind it, but landed just to the right of my one and only target, the one and true place to impact you, the heart. he fired back and shot me just there, then disappeared into his own brush, his own new, me-less world. my only reminder of him, now, is the blood that pours on me, warms me, the heart's memories that stain myskin red. he has won the war for now. fortunately i have more ammo.

Monday, April 12, 2010

lately i am having a hard time remembering
whether i took my medicine. then i start to feel a bit
funny, and i don't know if it's just normal-tired funny, or not-normal-didn't-take-your-medicine funny, so then i worry, oh no, maybe i didn't take my medicine today,
which makes me feel antsy -- which is the opposite of the point
of my medicine, which is to be calm -- and my only options are a) don't take my medicine, and antsy-antsy-antsy and worry about everything or
b) take it and maybe have 80 miligrams, instead of 40, of this numbing potion swirling in my blood, and be cool as a cucumber (dead as a vegetable).
super-alive or super-dead.