Tag: death

My sheer house

My sheer house is miniscule,
But here and now a lyric
Could take sublime molecules,
Make time's victory pyrrhic.

I give you this offering:
How I lived, a wish afloat
On songs of hope, softening
The wrongs which our scopes promote.

My dream to be feminine,
To see myself seem pretty,
A princess with eminence;
Pinced instead: what a pity.

I grew into depression,
My true self refused, repressed.
Desire became obsession;
To my shame I was possessed.

My own eating disorder
Bound up a need for starving,
Alcohol, and discordant,
Maladaptive wrist carving.

Death was posing constantly,
Its threshold closing around
Each moment of wantingly
Reaching, alone and unfound.

But I'm alive, shockingly,
I survived at rock bottom.
He found me worth pocketing,
Crowned my cursed head with autumn.

Before I was untethered,
Poured my puzzled blood weeping;
When he brought us together,
He bent thoughts that lie creeping.

A half-dozen medicines,
A path that wasn't direct
At last mounted reticence,
Perhaps found something correct.

We shacked up through manifold
Setbacks, yet we grew happy
Trusting plucky animals,
Our muscovy ducks' flapping.

There's still the same confusion.
Will you blame that I re-slept
My years' yearning delusion?
I've merely learned to accept.

I've lost and gained employment,
I've tossed the rains from islands 
To focus love's enjoyment;
A voice spoke above violence.

I'll never be omniscient;
So I must weather demons,
Though I fear I'm deficient.
I know my sincere reasons.

I'm not very capable
But caught a merry lifeline.
If even I'm shapeable,
Could seasons prime our lifetimes?

To mention that important
Question: what matters really?
Is self-knowledge supporting
My shelf of solid feeling?

Am I truly self-aware,
Can I duly note defects
In myself that interfere
With my health's tender reflex?

Have I built my quality
Which sadness wilted above;
Deeply lies my policy:
To keep those I call beloved.

Trapped Squirrel

The hole was certainly not there before.
The poor creature must have made it himself.
Cinched halfway in our fence
                       is a trapped squirrel.

When I awoke Cory alerted me,
Though my eyes were already arrested
By the thrashing, writhing tube of brown fur
And the clods of dirt frantically upturned.
Desperately trying to dig himself down,
He barely scrapes the ground, as his hind legs
Surely dangle behind him, far too thick
To fit through the tiny hole he gnawed out.
After these exertions he stretches, slinks,
And droops like a doll halfway in a chest.

When we approached he became a different
Doll entirely: a ragdoll, a chew toy
Flung against the fence by the jaws of fear.
We got him to take ahold of a broom;
He made a raspy growl as he bit in,
Then he grasped it like a life preserver.
We tried to slowly pull him from the hole,
The sound he made changed immediately:
A sonic squeal of pain and terror, shrill
As the tools the dentist puts in your mouth.

Instead we thought we might work from behind.
I took a peek around Donny's backyard,
But the corner where his back fence meets ours
Is too narrow and is blocked by a tree;
On our other neighbor's side, even more.
I stood on a chair to peer over top:
There's a maybe two-foot no-man's-land 
Full of bramble and dead branches and scrub
Narrowly enclosed by a chain-link fence.
Too much to clear and no room to work in.
We couldn't see him on that other side.

My only idea was a plywood board
That we have resting on the porch's wall;
I thought maybe it could be a platform
To give an upward angle he could climb,
Hopefully out of his predicament.
When that failed I thought perhaps we could use
It to goad him backwards the way he came
By making a reverse ramp—as it's raised 
Parallel to the fence with him upwards,
Might he slide down as if on a drawbridge?
No. This merely squished him against the wall.

It's obvious we can't save him ourselves.
I doubt it's a matter for the police;
I wonder if Fish and Wildlife will help.
I did what I always do when in need:
Call Mom and Dad.
                    Then I called the sheriff,
Who referred me to FWC.
For sure the squirrels are too prosperous
To warrant rescue for conservation.
I searched for some animal rescue groups,
Shelters, and the Humane Society,
But they only made note of cats and dogs.
The free experts are for gators and birds
And sea life in danger of being poached.
Can we afford to call a pest control
Service to save one squirrel from a fence?

Suddenly there came a knock at the door.
Dad had come out this way down SH Drive.
He and I went out for another round,
Surveying the situation at hand.
He brought a pincer which had similar
Results to the broom, as the squirrel squirmed
And twisted in defense we saw the raw,
Red spot where his frantic friction had scraped.
"You think maybe some cooking spray or PAM,
"You got some PAM in the house?"
                                         "No, nothing 
"Like that. I haven't even got butter."
"Do you got any Vaseline," he asked.
"Something like that, yeah I have some lube."
I returned with a little purple tube
Of Astroglide and poured above the spot
Where the wall met his matted, dirt-caked fur.
Dad tried the grabber to give him some help,
But all he could do was helplessly shriek.
We also had a couple metal pipes;
This time I held my plywood board over
The squirrel as a kind of guard while Dad
Put one pipe on top and slammed the other
Into it like a hammer and chisel.
We put our caveman plan into action,
But the fence's vinyl has caveman strength
And resisted the blunt rim of the pipe.
The squirrel squeaked and squealed beneath the blows.
"Poor thing, he's just a baby too," said Dad.
Drops of rain began to muddy the site.
"I think he might be SOL, Nicky."
"Yeah, maybe this is just his last mistake."
"Well, let's see if we can call somebody,"
But we had the same results as before.
Even the pest control number we called
Couldn't be here earlier than Monday.
It's Saturday. He won't hold on that long.
"I'm sorry. I wish we could do something,"
Dad said, looking out the window at him.

We stood in silence for a few moments.
The sad fact is squirrels die every day;
I can't count how many I've seen on roads.
The rain fell on the yard and the poor beast.
His torso hung down, enervated, weak.
Am I resigned to this small creature's death?
I didn't have to be. Dad turned to me,
Exclaimed, "you know what, the clippers'll do,
"And I got a pair of pliers. Let's go."

The shower drizzled out by our return.
I again took up my trusty plywood;
Dad gripped his clippers by their green handles,
They look like oversized safety scissors
Crossed with a pair of pliers. I knelt down
And placed the board over the squirrel's back,
Pressing down so slightly to give Dad space
To insert the clipper. He whimpered out
But the vinyl being sheared away must
Have brought some comforting hope to the dear.
The job's not done yet though; Dad cut a strip 
Of fence lengthwise then put the pliers in.
He began to pull and twist the white wall.
Some nervous squealing and a yelp of pain,
The pliers snagged a tiny tuft of grey
As they wrenched back the fence's siding.
This, the last pain of his imprisonment,
I'm sure the animal was glad to pay.
The dirt and grass rustled to our left.
As sudden as sunlight he had darted
Out from the wall, under the wooden board,
Straight to a nearby tree for his refuge.
He rested for a little while, then left,
And that's the last we saw of the squirrel.

I screamed expletives in pure excitement!
I knew this already but, "Dad, you're a
"Fucking hero!" We embraced in relief,
And as I moved the wood board from the hole
I gasped, understanding why I couldn't 
See his rear on the fence's other side:
There wasn't a hole leading through at all.
"The poor little guy must've fell in here
"Somehow, one of these caps must be missing,"
He told me as he pointed up the post.
"We'll take care of that later. We did it!"
An admittedly proud thankfulness swelled
In my heart. We hugged again, then gathered
Up the tools and muddy pipes and such things.
"Thank you for saving the squirrel."
"We had to; I felt for the poor baby."
With his work done, the hero returned home.
I brought myself to Cory in triumph,
"We did it together, we saved him, dear!"
"You and your dad saved him. I did nothing."
"That's not true, you were the first responder!"
My boy always minimizes his role,
But everyone was important to this.
All took part today in saving a life.

Changeling

The world is cold for babies born on fire,
Born to an addicted open secret.
The arbiters of order do not weep,
Their rule navigates on a tearful sea;
They're blind to them. A world with eyes downcast
Hurries along, greasing its gears with blood.

An inheritor of doubly-cursed blood,
But still a child with the spirit of fire;
Yet convinced their being is void, downcast,
Born a refugee of wars kept secret.
Childhood, an island in the stonefaced sea,
Smacks with wonder, but fear enough to weep.

And so he grew, differently, he would weep,
Afraid of a chill that runs through his blood,
Barely comprehended deep in the sea
Of adults' opinions and burns like fire
From other children's glances. Some secret
Rift separates, blown by a bolt downcast.

What does it mean—human—for one downcast
From ideal oblivion? All kids weep,
But tears like oil slither with a secret:
That he will not continue his line's blood.
While they could share the creation of fire,
A dirge beckons him down into the sea.

He snatches a breath, choking as the sea
Submerges his ears and nose; lost, downcast,
He crawls pronated to each distant fire,
Specters in the glittering sands which weep.
Can he even have what runs through his blood?
His unreachability his secret.

The mirror's years refused to keep secret
The prognosis of loneliness. A sea
Of whiskey and narcotics in his blood
Carries him from his own body's downcast;
Failing each time he tries to love, he weeps.
Did he wish for an all-consuming fire?

For fire it was—it burned every secret
And leapt, weeping, into memory's sea:
His downcast grimace in a pool of blood.

Roadkill

Death on the roadside
unexplainable
byproduct of killing life
who could ever know whom

seeking identification 
or if the skull isn't smashed to bits 
dental records
what if they had no teeth

witnesses what do they know
not for inculpation
no one knows their name
unknown Corpse
Roadkill

biohazard crew comes by
disposes of what lived yesterday
if only one person sees it
no one does

what if they're not human 
not even john doe
deposited on the shoulder
Carrion for the sun to bleach

what if they were my friend
what if only i know their name
then no one knows
i was never interviewed

passing on
so unceremoniously
my killing life demanded my time
i didn't even stop

mangled skeleton
with its wings still stretched
beautifully hideously macabrely
fly away from this cursed world 

can one even offer prayers
in this new mode of living Death
living and thereby murdering
sometimes quickly often slowly

i pray the friends i no longer see
are not and will not be
this unlucky one
what good is that to him

when each of us goes out
for groceries or work or just for pleasure
on our final road trip to Death 
every one will be our collective fault.

Fragments

Ask stupid questions,
How can you request
A serious inquest 
For a jester's bequest?

***

Prepare for losses,
Expectation lessens;
Then make actions listen
To life's painful lessons.

***

Staring at demise 
Can tighten a dream's seams.
Resilience made demure,
Repentance hope redeems.

After the Loss of Miracle the Duckling

The sun descends before a mere
Mortal could ever fathom when,
And that's what fills humans with fear.

Black, indelible ink; the pen
Proscribes loved and unloved while I
Feel the true fear of change again.

These nearly-limitless things vie,
Each one of them so small at birth;
Yet some it sees fit to deny.

Lives inestimable in worth,
Newly born; why do some survive
While others get but days on Earth?

Why is it while they were alive
The bloody blade reaped thereupon
And nothing done could help them thrive?

I hear the doleful singing swan
Echo my thoughts. I must praise.
Even after, new young will spawn.

There will be more ducklings to raise;
Even those we've lost will be kept,
Remembered my remaining days.

And beyond when my windows wept,
They have their niche that they've occupied;
I'm a moment to intercept.

In all my childish, misty-eyed
Attachment I forfeit most sense,
For this is how they've multiplied.

Citification built the fence
Which separates and shelters me.
Life becomes unreal and intense.

Competition is anomie
To one with precious much to lose;
Life and fear in synonymy.

Such is the case for one who views
Constant struggle through rationale
And the tragedy it imbues,

But how could an animal scowl
At the fate of life, its one gift?
They don't see things as fair or foul.

They only know the life they lift
From the seed of their forebears' soil
And the changes of seasons' shift.

They're not averse to earthly toil,
Their being, both parcel and part
Of their place in this mortal coil.

As such there's never loss of heart
For them when tragedy befalls
Their life, the ever-forward dart.

An indomitable will calls
Their spirits onward with elan
Uncomprehending of our galls.

These ducks have but a single plan,
Which is to be what they will be
And to nurture their little clan;

To follow their ancestral tree
With peace wild and docile at once,
My darling ducks, this family.

So even when misfortune hunts,
I trust these ducks will persevere
Through both dreary and merry months.

They could be my teachers of cheer,
Wary for their safety and yet
Unknowing existential fear.

They simply take what they can get.
They remain happy and content,
Though looking out for any threat.

They're unafraid how much is spent,
It's all for life and it's all fair.
That's how nature builds its ascent.

A million generations' wear
Strengthens the very DNA
Which brings all creatures up to bear.

Very little controls the sway
Of fate. But, as their parents had,
They grow confident with each day.

It's like their souls are armor-clad,
Uncrippled by softhearted pain
That never fails to drive me mad.

Nature is indifferent to strain.
Prepared for total loss, it gains.