​Memorial Day 2020 by debgrant
 
This is the day my father
would recite from memory
the poem about the poppies
growing row on row. 
A car accident put him in a hospital
for five years.
He was admitted as a teenager
and left a broken, wiser man.
He spent the years reading.
He memorized poetry.
He worked in the Springfield Armory
during WWII
because his broken body could not enlist.
His mind remembered the poetry.
His heart recited it to his children.
What he did for the war effort 
was to build weapons for the soldiers.
What he did for all who fought and died
was to remember them.
Remember them
who were now at peace
Beneath the poppies row on row
beyond the war.
What he did was teach his children
the tender act
of remembering.
He taught his children
this day is not about freedom
or flag or beating our chests
for the freedom
to infect our one another with 
thoughtlessness.
This is a day to feel 
the brokenness in our nation's bones,
to mourn lost souls,
to listen to voices of those who fought
on varied fronts and died
and remember who we are. 
###  

​This is a quote of Dietrich Bonhoeffer's from Letters and Papers from Prison.  I often find myself returning to it for its tenderness and wisdom.
 
"I should like to say something to help you in the time of separation that lies ahead.  There is no need to say how hard any such separation is for us; but as I've now been separated for nine months from all the people that I'm devoted to, I should like to pass on to you something of what I have learnt.
 
First: nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love, and it would be wrong to try to find a substitute; we must simply hold out and see it through.  That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation, for the gap, as long as it remains unfilled, preserves the bonds between us.  It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; he doesn't fill it, but on the contrary, he keeps it empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other, even at the cost of pain.
 
Secondly: the dearer and richer our memories, the more difficult the separation.  But gratitude changes the pangs of memory into a tranquil joy.  The beauties of the past are borne, not as a thorn in the flesh, but as a precious gift in themselves.  We must take care not to wallow in our memories or hand ourselves over to them, just as we do not gaze all the time at a valuable present, but only at special times, and apart from these keep it simply as a hidden treasure that is our for certain.  In this way the past gives us lasting joy and strength.
 
Thirdly: time of separation are not a total loss or unprofitable for our companionship, or at any rate they need not be so.  In spite of all the difficulties that they bring, they can be the means of strengthening fellowship quite remarkably.
 
Fourthly: I've learnt here especially that the facts can always be mastered, and that difficulties are magnified out of all proportion simply by fear and anxiety.  From the moment we wake until we fall asleep we must commend other people wholly and unreservedly to God and leave them in his hands, and transform our anxiety for them into prayers on their behalf:
 
With sorrow and with grief . . .
God will not be distracted."   - Dietrich Bonhoeffer

​Surprise  by debgrant
 
One of the intimate horrors
of certain callings
is to tend to those
who have in that breath or hour
been told that 
the one they loved
is dead. 
 
The moment is so naked,
I have tended not 
to stare but remain close.
I cannot touch their grief
I can only stand silently in it.
 
Once in awhile,
I have peeked
into the sudden abyss of their shock
plummeting into dark on dark 
colorless depths.
On one occasion I was surprised
by a veil of beauty.
A shekinah.
A light beyond human ability to radiate.
An aura the color of tenderness.
A brave whisper of hope amidst 
the coming calendars of hurt
and hopelessness. 
 
The agony of loss remains.
It does not heal before our eyes.
The wounds still bleed.
The infections still breed.
But sometimes, when least expected,
Shekinah shows her face 
whose light holds all the colors
while we hurt. 
 
The darkness of sorrow remains
and yet this morning
there is also an impossible
new shade of green
to be seen. 
 
###
 

Necropolitics by debgrant
 
New word for me
necropolitics
here's the definition 
to save you a google
so you don't have
to reveal that Latin
is not your first language.
 
The relationship between sovereignty and power over life and death.
 
It's been around a long time.
I just didn't know there was a word for it.
Studies. 
Ph.D. dissertations.
 
Necropolitics is what happens 
when we discover we can smoosh an ant
with our baby foot muscles. 
It is what happens when we choose
to end our dog's suffering.
It is what happens on an adoption form
That includes the question: 
"If your biological child and your adopted child were drowning and you could only save one, which would it be?"
It is what happens when....
fill in the blank.
you know, you know.
 
In the hands of sovereign rulers
or bodies of legislators,
the lines are drawn.
The labels invented.
The T-shirts printed. 
The lapel-ribbon color chosen.
Wombs are territories to fight over.
Nursing homes are not. 
Prisons.  Didn't we already abandon that fight?
 
Survival of the fittest.
The one with the most power to decide over life and death
wins.
Wins what exactly?
 
Once there was a 
Challenger to the powers that be
over necropolitics.
We asked him necropolitical questions
like "Who is my neighbor?"
to help us sort our own research data
into who lives, who dies, who gets to choose.
 
The Challenger's response to
"who is my neighbor?"
was "Close your fisted law books.
Stop riveting plates on your religious hearts.
Get over your racist bullshit.
Use your eyes, your clothes, your food, your money.
Invite others to use theirs.
 
It is a power not of 
this world.
He told us that. 
We still don't get it. 
 
###

Less of a poem, more thinking out-loud...maybe there is not much difference.
 
I have been thinking about the loss of rituals because of this pandemic.  
Rituals can be formal like communion or informal meeting a friend for coffee or a beer or birthday parties. 
I have been thinking about the way in which we grieve.  Depression is a disease that needs to be diagnosed and treated. It happens to many but not all.
Grief happens to all. We all experience loss. What we do with that grief often depends on what we have been taught. 
My first great grief was the death of a cat. Dad was there to help my grief. Then I was slammed with my father's death when I was just short of 14 years old.
The protocol for grief for me included: living at a neighbor's house for a week to allow visiting relatives to use my bedroom, being separated and alone, being told not to cry and having smelling salts waved under my nose at the funeral home to stop me from crying. 
Needless to say, that was a clinic on how to do some lasting damage about grieving. 
I survived.
I learned to cry. 
I learned to shake my fist at the sky 
and hock up a sound from my gut to my vocal cords that could break a glass without anyone hearing it.
 
This pandemic has given us all a lot to grieve:
Loss of loved ones and members of the human family across the globe
Loss of gathering places and events
Loss of a hug
Loss of family rituals, celebrations, future plans.
Loss of work and household routines.
 
I am been thinking lately that we need to learn how to grieve if we are ever going to heal, to have the energy to be creative with our own survival.
 
We don't need to be told to "stay positive."  We are trying.  
We don't need to be told "don't feel that way." That just adds shame to how we already feel.
We need a trash can in which to vomit the bile of loss. And a wet, cold washcloth to wipe our mouth. 
 
Maybe it is a bonfire built of paper or wood and words written or spoken or silently burned.
Maybe it is a good long cry that ends with the cry-headache hangover.
Maybe it is howling until your neighbor's windows light up in the night.
 
It won't be a magical potion.
It won't mean the grief is gone for good.
It just is a way to survive 
and get around to doing
something that is made of life. 
 
Peace, my friends, peace be with you.
Deb
####

Inside out by debgrant
 
Focusing I cannot do
Worry shreds a day in tatters
I don't remember the date
Or why it even matters
 
Circumstances beyond my power
are siphoning my soul
If the bleeding doesn't stop
I will my own stone roll.
 
The aid I first perform
is on my fisted heart
I loosen up my grip,
a surgery to start.
 
Instead of torturing the future
or clinging to the sorrow,
I nudge my heart today
to change another heart's tomorrow.
 
This is Christ's Easter body 
Who from hiding is called out
Not to re-gather in the stone
But love from inside out.
###
************************************
 
​Just a reminder:  Do you know a teacher or health care worker?  Perhaps this print could be a thank you from you to them.  I will be glad to send it in your name.
Jazzwater Art for the Greater Good.  LIMITED TIME OFFER!!!

• Make a donation to a local food pantry in your area in any amount
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• Thank you for caring for our neighbors. Together, we can fly.​                        

​Modest Proposal by debgrant
 
I can hear my mother's voice say,
"Do you have to say everything on your mind, Deb?"
I learned that my thoughts weren't welcome.
I feared none were welcome.
I started listening more than I spoke.
Not a bad thing.
Not a bad thing at all.
I learned to stop my thoughts from leaking out.
I have never been completely successful.
When the escapees got me in trouble,
I imagined needing a guardian at the gate.
I enlisted the back of my teeth
to cross their cuspids and crowns
like bayonets to prevent my words
from flying into the air 
and detonating. 
 
Now I wish for a more high-tech solution.
Before I hit the send button,
could someone invent a half-way house 
or a holding tank
or a purgatory
where the words could sit
between good intentions and gut punch.
I would visit them again with questions.
Could they be received badly?
Could they be misunderstood?
Will they help at all?
What are my motives?
There is a satisfaction of hitting send 
but it is erased in the remorse 
of unintended hurt or humblebrag. 
 
An extra button would be nice 
after the satisfying SEND.
A button appearing on the next screen
in a moment
after the blood runs cooler on the
keyboard.
A button that asks "Is this who I am?"
 
Until then, I am my own collector of
thoughts and guardian at the gate. 
Until then, I take the risk to remain
silent and turn the weapons on myself
or take the risk to speak
if only to say
"Take care. I hope this helps."
###