Sort of Villanelle to Dylan Thomas (“Do not go gentle”) and Sylvia Plath (“Lady Lazarus”)
Your death may fit you like a shoe.
You’ve gone your way and now you’re through.
Be still, there’s nothing you can do.
The one poet spoke of dying as her art,
The other advised rage- their art came through.
But your death may fit you gently as a shoe.
Why not spend last moments in praise?
Like monks chant the day through…
Be still, there’s nothing you can do.
8 times a day, chant: “ Lauds, Nones or Vespers,
Mark off, the cadence of their days
Complines, Vigils fits them like a shoe.
And you, at night your heart beats through
Your pillow like footsteps, footsteps coming for you.
Be still there’s nothing you can do.
Rachmaninoff and Mahler showed you what to do
At least compose a dying fall—not anger but acceptance
Your death may fit you gently like a shoe.
Be still, there’s nothing you can do.
Lighter after thots, variants:
Relax, there’s nothing you must/should do
O go ahead gently into that good night.
Mom said “Everything’s going to be alright”.
David Eberhardt, 83. was a member of the Baltimore Four with Father Philip Berrigan, Tom Lewis and Rev. James Mengel. The group poured blood on draft files on October 27, 1967 and were convicted and sent to Federal prison. Eberhardt has been active on the Baltimore poetry scene since the 1960’s when he wrote for underground newspapers.
Is it a regular sight, spontaneous combustion in the shimmering heat? Still, Moses could not have been anointed in any other way— a fiery baptism on a God’s Mountain and a shepherd in an arid land, standing in bare feet.
Anything less would not focus our attention. In our peripheral vision, we can almost see the wizard behind the parted curtain. Moses is curious and turns aside to look.
God pivots fast: Psst, Moses, Moses, over here! The curtain is hastily closed. The illusion is saved. The scribes laugh quietly amongst themselves, taking a welcome break from their labors.
It is painstaking work. Every bit is carefully scripted. The Mosaic team gave birth to this extraordinary child, raised him, tested him, and presented him to the king for his approval—Israel’s hero in the nick of time.
Ma Chère Amie
I have a friend with many friends.
The Nazis occupied her country when she was a little girl her father could not preach against them in his church her family was split up for five years.
When she was 75 she survived cancer her husband is gone her grandchildren are grown she lives alone in an apartment.
At 95 she still travels by train and plane takes cabs to hear jazz and blues in an old DC church protested against racism in a thunderstorm and called it “glorious.”
She speaks four languages she loves everyone she loves our world she loves God she even loves me.
To finish the sentence When I get to heaven… she sent “Recipe for Happiness Khaborovsk or Anyplace” and under it she typed “When I get to heaven I am going to send harmonious and uplifting vibes to the world.”
I looked everywhere for that quote where did you find that I asked her did Ferlinghetti write that too “No. I did!” I want to be like her.
The Bedouin
Brewing sugary, sage tea in spouted tin pots over small fires, with hobbled camels grazing nearby, Jordanian Bedouin men come in from the desert, and gather in red-striped frame tents— to tell stories, serve tea and sell trinkets and camel rides to tourists.
They wear the red and white Bedouin scarf on their heads, tied carefully or banded in place to keep out the wind, sand, cold or heat.
They claim no nation or polity— the Bedouin are nomads without borders, living in a land where travel is restricted and check points must be negotiated. They are anachronisms, wearing sneakers beneath long tunics.
In Khan Al-Ahmar, on the edge of the Judean desert, there are families of Bedouin encamped. Their women and children are generous, undereducated, unhealthy. Their long-eared goats eat cardboard out of old trash cans. Their men meet with Palestinians, journalists and those with no agenda but kindness. The Palestinians want them to join the fight against the occupation, their flag is anchored inside an old tire. One tire among many.
The Bedouin simply want to live in peace on land that will not be taken away from them by sweeping their untidy existence under their vivid, fringed rugs—as though they had never been.
I Couldn’t Sing Songs to Jesus Anymore
It was the longest show I ever did, then one day I was done. I couldn’t play a holy role, so I quit and wandered alone.
In Istanbul I flew to Israel where I rode on a camel’s back, stood smirking in the Jordan, in Capernaum I befriended a cat. I climbed all over Petra’s stones, faced the wind at the Acropolis, finally, freezing on Alaska’s ice I met Death in a plate of fish.
She was just passing through, she couldn’t stay— a traveler like me— she wanted to bring me home with her but I was going a different way.
From Anchorage to Seattle to Washington DC she turned me round and round. I’d almost lost the wheel of her when we came at last to ground.
Rachel M. Clark is a retired educator, actor and poet living in Northern Virginia, teaching English to immigrants and leading a poetry circle at her local library. She has been published in a handful of small journals in the US and the UK.
“Don’t lose sleep over it.” Chances are, I probably will.
No matter how miniscule the item in question.
Tossing and turning Thinking about: The conversation, The worry, The undone task, The future, The thing I did wrong Or really right. That battle in my head I wish I’d won, That week’s current event, That excites me Or makes me anxious.
The event that will bring me closer towards my authentic liberation. That will bring the country and world closer towards their shared liberation. Freedom of mind and body in shared community and space.
Thinking about: The thoughts or words I need to write down. The connectedness of all issues and solutions. The laws, the bylaws. The bombs and budgets of the West.
Thoughts and emotions reeling, Looking towards the next day. Even when the sun is asleep. While I should be asleep.
Heart beating fast, Waiting for news. Mouth drying waiting to speak, Body restless, Waiting to strike.
They say rest is radical and crucial. And I agree. But how do you sleep, in a country that’s mostly asleep?
How do you sleep When billionaires and boys start a coup and establishment leaders play by the rules?
How do you sleep When leaders create double standards, Ignoring the cries of their people, Cracking down on protesters and the working class, Waving colors of Blue, white, red, green, and black?
How do you sleep, With a mind that’s awake And a body that’s moved to act?
A Frozen Fire Melts Ice
For so long, I’ve sat in a costume. Waiting for something. And as autumn passed and mid-winter sat, my mouth grew dry. As I stood and listened. Too nice to be angry, but not kind enough to address a problem. Ready to please whoever walked my path.
Worry kept me still, My jaw clenched, frozen and ready to tell a lie. Just to make everything fine.
After years of living in a freeze state, two people happened upon my path: One was my friend and One was my younger self.
They placed a glass bottle near my face. As soon as the Olive Oil touched my lips, I felt like it was safe to begin unfreezing. Like the Tin Man, I could finally move my jaw. Up and down, left to right. And I found my voice.
I found that I had a lot to say. I was angry, more so than I knew. I didn’t know what I was searching for, words or actions. But I knew I had been holding me back.
My friend looked taken aback. But they pulled out a compact of their pocket. They opened it and it reflected.
I saw my face and felt it. Soft and cold to the touch. I saw my eyes, fire sign. Flames ablaze.
This fire melted the remaining ice. This fire lit up someone the ice had hidden.
Someone ready to speak. Someone ready to act. Someone ready to be in community. Someone ready to support others unfreeze.
Giulia DeLuca is a writer living in Washington, DC. In her work, she combines current events, the complexities of navigating the human experience, and the need for shared action and liberation.
I Meribah, granddaughter of Amenemhat, beloved of Ishmael, recite my ancestors’ lessons so that you, my child, may teach them to your own.
It is through our mothers that we enliven our people’s stories, and teach the generations from Vulture to Basin.
Our grandfathers’ names are precious they reveal the deepest truths.
Abram, father of Ishamel, whose name meant “turn around”, was elevated to Abraham “The Father of the Feminine” whose seed was sown about the world for he sowed the words of God in the mouths of his children and grandchildren.
His son, your father, was named “He Who Hears God” his legacy pronounced to Heaven.
My mother’s father, Amenemhat, whose name means “Who Believed in Her,” planted within our family the mother’s task.
We are the grandchildren of Eden. Ours is the legacy of the unbroken word of the Heavenly Chorus– deities sprung from the Endless Beginning. They that constructed all that you see, hear, smell, taste, touch, and perceive. They are the building blocks communicated to you and to me as we sat at our grandfathers’ knees.
In the Beginning, as the End and the Infinity swirled within the Void, A Ha! A universe burst forth, struck as lightning, illuminating effervesces of iteration.
Down a manifold path this force erupted, through Severity and Mercy, awakening each universal paradigm. Constructs echoed across the chasms of aquatic nothingness, vibrations formed the undercurrent of our universe.
These cosmic bounces birthed logic, constructed the very matter of our heavens Swirling, pulling, pulsating, contracting into the very stuff of planets whose reverberations and tremors awakened the fabric of our existence.
We are an emergence of this Divine reverberance, a mere microcosm of the Infinite Endless logic blazing across the two-score paths that unite us with our Creator.
We are, each of us, breathing the very breath of this cosmic logic, We exist for a single multifaceted purpose To reenact love that brings peace to all things. As the breath of Everything rippled across the inky vastness animating us in Its image; therefore to oscillate our creations into perfection. But how?
This is the secret of all creation: the love each of us must radiate should be as a weighted blanket, a swaddling cloth for our precious children. Our love must be the warm, tender and unfailing arms of a mother holding her most beloved.
All things long for peace, contentment and equilibrium a weighted blanket and loving embrace. As instruments of the Infinite our task is to exemplify the very feeling that started this whole wild experiment.
When we can love as perfectly as that perfection which formed us, we will have finally mastered our reason for being.
Rabbi Matthew Ratz is the Executive Director of Passion for Learning, Inc., a nonprofit focused on closing opportunity gaps for low-income students in STEM and college readiness. He also teaches English at Montgomery College, has authored several books, and has appeared in poetry anthologies. A recognized speaker and poet, his TEDx talk is available on YouTube and TED.com. Matthew channels his extensive experience and unwavering commitment to inclusivity and equity to make a positive impact on the world.
We both had positive Covid tests after celebrating New Year’s Eve a few days earlier. Her ex sent her a text saying he wasn’t vaccinating their ten-year-old son. She is surprised he got back to her at all. She’s worried about her sons attention deficit disorder. When she had full custody of him she tried her hardest to get him into one of the best private schools. They all turned him down. Too difficult to teach, they all said, without actually saying it. I tell her he is a beautiful kid. Looks just like a young Marlon Brando. “Yes!” she immediately responded, vigorously pirouetting around the entire room. “I think he must have had attention deficit disorder also. Look what he did with it though: he was amazing! My son could be amazing too, don’t you think?” “Sure,” I said, “even better than Marlon Brando!” Her voice instantly quivered. Tears streaming down her naked yellow cheeks. “I will put away everything I possibly can. When my boy becomes an adult, I will definitely send him to Hollywood, if he has any interest.” Her ex that badly abused her for years and normally completely ignores her texts sent several photos of drawings their son recently did at school. She sat on the lounge studying them an extended period. “Forget about Hollywood,” she enthusiastically declared, following a long thoughtful silence, “I will be sending my son to Paris!” she repeated the rest of the night, along with a luminous smile, more golden than Klimt.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, Big Hammer and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. brentonbooth.weebly.com
