.

of it we never took notice before

so small efficient and loyal
then cut, it’s alive! grows putrid to catch
infection. yuck: oozing white mess
levied with pains from the growing

red flesh now severed. we call that healing?
yep, we’re all cut. some are cut through,

left angry, weeping because we’re all whelps,
plus—we miss the uncut heart and

of course we never took notice before.

.

.
Shift in pitch
On stormy swells and liquid knells
Make sailors sick.

Keeping eyes on calm horizons are these weathered men

No longer; now
Distracted by the silent sly
Grey fog and mist

They pray for mill
Stones and a chain, a hearty chain
To stop the pitch

And drag them down
To promised calm where siren songs
Have made their graves

Free from pitch and sway.
Oh, give them that horizon red, and take away that grey!

Jaded

Why is this so difficult? Others have it worse. It must be difficult for me because I'm totally unprepared. Seeing my infant daughter in the hospital breaks me, but it shouldn't.

Remembering that it could be worse, how hard others have it, being told about biblical Job, isn't helpful. I feel depressed that others have it worse. Unfair.

My daughters rests her head against my chest. Her tongue is swollen to maximum capacity. The uninformed nurse suggests I feed her from a bottle. I wonder if my nurse if visually impaired. Blood is flowing from the wound under my baby's tongue.

My back is sore, but I keep holding her because she won't be comforted any other way. I spent the night in a hard chair, never sleeping. My wife slept on the cold wood floor. We weren't expecting to stay the night; the baby was expected to be healed by now; nothing was going as expected.

Between fits of pain and bleeding, the baby sleeps in my arms against my chest. I learn that she probably isn't sleeping, she's probably collapsing with exhaustion. It's been days since the baby has eaten anything. Her eyes roll, then close for another collapse. The only medicine she has is Tylenol and antibiotics. I think it's time for a new prescription.

The baby doesn't recognize the person who just entered the room, so she clings closer to me. While the newcomer performs a new procedure the baby cries a new song. A new cry that screams "Stop it. Why won't someone save me?" Then she collapses.

They keep moving her in and out of the ICU to make room for new patients. The multiple moves keep the baby's anxiety fresh, and also results in the ripping of the IV from her foot. Blood now from her top and bottom, her bed is soiled. The nurse has now provided me new sheets after three hours.

The antibiotics give her diarrhea. It finds its way to my pants, of course; I don't have another pair. I clean her up. She hates being put on her back--so untrusting now. I hold her to my chest again and the blood flows to my sleeves. I smell her breath. The potent odor of rotting flesh--of wounds unhealed--should never come from a baby's body.

We're both a smelly pair, neither bathed in days. We do our best to clean the mess, but the swelling continues anyway. Her exhaustion gets worse. Her blood clots get worse. Her heartbeat: irregular, leading to more procedures, leading to more haunting sounds. I can't tell her it'll all be okay. She's too young to understand; she thinks it'll go on forever. I don't know what I would say anyway.

Exhaustion reaches me. I blaspheme. Then again with real intent. I'm dizzytired. My arms can't hold her anymore. She's only getting worse. I fear the worst.

My wife takes over, so I make my way home on public transit. It takes longer than it should. I'm covered in mess. People give looks, I have violent thoughts.

Finally, I'm home. It should feel bigger because it's empty, but it's as small as ever, as expensive as ever. Work at the office is piling up, unlike my checking account. No help from Above. Others have it worse and I don't care. I'm broken. Life's unfair...blasphemously hopeless. I know God's there; I no longer care.

I remove my shirt to find my under-garments stained blood-red. I apologize to Him. I hope He forgives. Meanwhile, maybe I'll find and help someone worse-off.

Poem #2, Princess

God, catch her if she falls.
She feels your love with Faith, and trusts.
Surprised, she falls so fast,
She thinks and trusts you'll save. You must!
She Hopes the landing’s soft.
How can you watch without disgust?

Sharp rocks do wait below.
They break her fall.
They make it fast.
Her body once was soft.
The rocks did strike their blow.

Then ‘round the rocks she’ll rise,
With wounded friends on bended knee.
The process now so slow.
Less Faith and Hope, more Charity
Her scars should make her hard
To you. Is not this what you see?

She’ll heal and try again!
Her steady rise,
Recov'ry slow.
The rocks below: so hard.
She's at the ledge again.

Dear God, please catch her when she falls.

April #1, HDT-Venom

I have always held a lower-than-average opinion of Henry David Thoreau, so when I discovered that a nameless Wikipedia contributor had giving him credit for inspiring and influencing the political thoughts and actions of Tolstoy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Gandhi, I decided to reevaluate him.

At first glance, Thoreau appears to be the only person in history to successfully beat Martin Harris in the World’s Ugliest Beard contest. Being an intellectual and philosophical man, he would resent my shallow judgments almost as much as I resent his work being called intellectual. Standing in the worthy shadow of Emerson, Thoreau graced our planet with Walden Pond, a book as deep as a dry puddle on the flat pavement.

Apparently unemployable, Thoreau scavenged off the mercies of Emerson by living in Emerson’s dilapidated spare house on Walden Pond. From here Thoreau teaches the human race some important lessons:

#1 To decrease the complexities of life, try Simplifying! things

#2 When Thoreau gets hungry, really hungry, he wants to eats stuff, even animals

#3 Words should be read with as much care as the writer gives when writing

Personally, I started with #3 by reading his book with the level of care he used while writing it, which led me to accomplish #1 because I Simplified! my personal library by donating the book to a local thrift store. (The publisher further Simplified! the process by including Civil Disobedience in the same volume, Simplifying! my disposal process.)

But placing my heartless Venom aside, our culture's extravagance has created an economic mess. If instead simplification was the mantra of our generation we might have avoided the hunger that poor Thoreau had to face.

His words whisper from the past like the annoying brat in school that always claimed "I told you so." I imagine this trait earned Thoreau a few black eyes in his schooling days, which probably explains the real reason he went off to live by himself.