I.
It was frosty in the outer world
and I was slipping into it like racing pony
amid howls of excitement
my Nana clapping and singing
my mom in her catcher's stance, mitt in hand
as I, grabbing my daddy's paint brushes
and 2 additional cans of paint, slid by.
I know that it was this way
My Nana had a piano and played
Irish (American Irish) songs and hymns
and still many of those notes sing-song through
my brain
fluttering like birds on a wire
still the softballs fly whacking my mothers mitt
thwack, thwack
my father's mother sighing, needle and thread in hand,
“she ought to be quilting'
daddy, so far away but bristling with brushes
at the workbench or in his cellar bed
he said it would be too hard to teach painting to me
when he hardly knew it himself struggling as he was
with life's dirty left hand, with the noonday demon
it's life, this is it
we come and we go
is the picture clear?
Okay, I forgot the priest
flinging his holy waters and sacred oils
hoping it would stick,
mother sighed, father shrugged, nana sang
and that was that
within a few years those paint cans sprouted
and 2 additional sillies joined the cooking pot
swirling and singing, laughing and crying
we swam together, ran together
played ball together
and thus it continued for a long time
mother clapped, father sighed, nana smiled
It's life, this is it
we come and we go
II.
It was one of those mornings
one of those mornings when I wished
I could stand in the warm shower forever
as if the warmth streaming down my body
would envelop me, would keep me alive
would preserve those that I love
I have been reading Joan Didion's book
about loss, more than loss, death,
and the terrible deep loss, the finality, that entails
and the warmth of the water seemed protective
like a blanket or a lover on a
chilly winter's eve
just after or just before Christmas
It's life, this is it
we come and we go
and earlier I had been remembering
all of the boyfriends that I had
that I had made out with
but had never spoken to
(I don't usually talk, you know)
what did they like? Or wish for?
What were their loves or were
they just angry about everything?
Did any of them end up in VietNam
or Iraq? Did they hold objections to war?
did they end up with PTSD?
Where are they today?
It's just life, this is it
we come and we go
III.
those two little paint buckets that
followed me into the world
round and pink and female
disrupted my placid self-centered life
teasing, laughing, running
destroying all the sensibilities that
my sensitivities had maintained
they were a nuisance, a nuisance
for years and years
thank you, but all I wanted was a book
and some peace and quiet and a lack of interruption
(my Gurdjieff teacher said that I was spoiled)
It's life, this is it
we come and we go
and the terror of school, the teachers
and their tantrums
(someone said that if you climbed
to the top of the jungle gym after school,
you could see the nuns taking off their
habits, see what they looked like with their
short cropped hair) but true to my nature
I was appalled at the idea of spying
and went home to the thwack, thwack
of my mother's softball glove and my father's
sometimes painterly life in the basement
It's life, this is it
we come and we go
IV.
there is, someplace buried in my mind,
my soul, a love for the beauty of the word,
which flowered a time or two under the tutelege of Mark
a veritable Buddhist magician
drawing all sorts of triumphal flights of images
from his (mostly) younger followers
smitten as they are with his quiet and open self
traits too often lacking in the modern American male
yet beloved by most women
a male poet of feeling, rather Whitmanesque
and greatly beloved
it's life, this is it
we come and we go
surely I have a lot on my mind these days
the conflict within my family being uppermost
the criticism of my daughters and my sister
the problems and illegal behavior of my son
my own tendency to shut myself up in my room.
It all gives me a headache of immense proportions
probably because I do not know how to deal with it
I can see, as I often do, both sides of the question
which leaves me paralyzed
I neither wish to fight or flee (where would I live?)
it's life, this is it
we come and we go
V.
I see, momentarily, the emptiness of things
and yet their fullness
how what others do, they do,
and how doing nothing is also okay
how I can see and feel my fingers
on these computer keys
see and feel the thoughts rushing through my mind
but know that the quiet of my soul is what
is meaningful
I wish to keep and hold dear the few relationships
that I have – with Chris, with Tom, with Mark
and Tina? Where did she go?
And where did that child go who was slipping
so joyfully into this life?
A quote from Joan Didion -
“I have already lost touch with a couple of people
I used to be”
It's life, this is it
we come and we go.
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