Constance…for Charissa this year, there will be 2 anthems:
Constance…nice to see that the perp got the obligatory “setting the corpse on fire” piece correct…right??
Sigh…always the post mortem mayhem and mutilation.
What does say about the strength of gender orientation?
(And no, Hater…the answer is NOT “the bitch had it coming”)
Well, at least we can all console ourselves with the knowledge that our Transgender Remembrance Day is gonna be soo great for all of us who live, and we will have plenty to preen about and feel ever so sad over as we break our arms patting ourselves on the back for how progressive we are because we cry and remember the dead ones.
Oh, but we must be oh so careful to never actually do anything about this ongoing murder spree lest we make the need for Transgender Remembrance Day disappear…can’t have that, now, can we!!? I mean, actually do something?? *Shudder*
Yes, Constance, you did a remarkable job in detecting my extreme sarcasm…get the point, and then get to work. This will not change until cis-gender people with privilege speak up and use their power on our behalf.
Be careful to peer around the crooked corners
and slide around the slippery slopes
(not down them…it’s bananas at the bottom!)
because life lurks there, around corners
and is easily missed.
But you must not look straight at it
or it will simply fade and leave
that grin hanging in mid air.
No…look askance, in glimpses…
watch the work-worn wrinkled hands
of old women scraping turnips,
or the quick certain pittipats and flour puffs
of the baker and her turnovers and pop-ups…
if you can stand it, and not blink
you will see God take the stage
in the need of our hearts
Once upon a times
and happily ever afters!
Oh, this life is not for everyone!
Those puffed up Pillsbury dough boys
all full of wealth and self-importance
and those Mr. Cleans engorged
with religion and selfish knowledge,
well they are dancing around idols
of such gross magnitude
they cannot be disturbed
by such trivia as butterfly kisses!
They cannot bear to gaze
upon the ordinary, or wade
in the shallows of Overlook Creek.
It has too much weight for them,
the weight of ordinary life.
“And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)”
That prideful young fool who ran off to the pigs
and that old man who ran to the end of the lane again,
over and over and over again, and the hearts there revealed
in the choices they made and the actions they took…
And the hard man who stayed behind, bitter and stiff
in the work to be done and estate to be gained
and the putting in place of a lazy young fool
and an old sentimental man, soft in his dottery doting…
The Shepherd related this story of hearts, common,
ordinary and intertwined with each other
in intricate detail and boring old sameness.
This story, it echoes to all in the human race, ever…but
I always ponder in my heart another heart…
What of the mother of these slanted sons
and the wife of this kind-hearted father, what of her?
The hidden mother of the prodigal son?Was she allowed to the end of the lane
to look yearningly for her child headstrong and stubborn?
Did she put her healing hand on the strong haughty
arm of her eldest, so driven and hardened in countenance?
I think that she was with her youngest child
in her heart and her mind and her lullaby songs
in the lonely nights as she was sleepless and wakeful
and weeping compassionate tears for the blindness of youth…
and then holding the household together by day,
the buffer between tender father and bitter son
cut off by care from the heart of the other…She is the one who transformed ordinary pain
into foundations of all sins forgiven,
she is the agent of grace in this story
and that is why she is unmentioned and hidden,
as quiet as grass growing, loud as a heartbeat
the roar on the far side of silence at dawn,
she pulled back the curtain of tragedy so the next
Act of Amazing Grace could flow unceasing,
filling the infinite distance between lost humanity dark
and God in Their grandeur resplendent and generous
so full of Mercy and such Lovingkindness.
The prodigal son, the hard elder brother,
the father so tender, the Shepherd so gentle
and there…Mama…pouring out
Grace on Grace on Grace.
If you are a skeptic be careful
when you stroll by the sea.
So much in this world
hints at so much more to be,
We are intricately bound
to this world of woven wonder
and its all-encompassing gain
bled thru the all-encompassing loss.
I am caught there,
snagged on the loom
of poetry, and poems of mourning,
poems of profound lament.
You see, I am skeptical of happiness and yet
I am also skeptical of sorrow, that mere
A to Z acrostic of grief and loss expressed,
because it has its built in default limit.
These our exiled lives in disarray,
spirits torn out of our homes
and singing songs of misery
much deeper than we can endure?
It ends with bleeding blossoming,
our longing for that shining home
that waits across the water
and that notion, bright as noontime.
and that foggy haunting certainty,
that aching homely homesickness
that sings a deeper song unceasing…
All that tells us home is there
Under the concrete carefully poured
and scraped smooth and uniform
confining and eradicating
the lack of imagination
but nothing else and cracks
at the slightest pushback
so long as it is unquenchable.
Root and branch, flower and weed
join in that chorus unstoppable
while the wren sings and sings
and the stars dance in delight
over the mute, dull concrete