This Day, and Probably Tomorrow Also

Full of thought, regret, hope dashed or not dashed yet,

full of memory, pride, and more than enough

of spilled, personal grief,

I begin another page, another poem.

So many notions fill the day! I give them

gowns of words, sometimes I give them

little shoes that rhyme.

What an elite life!

While somewhere someone is kissing a face that is crying.

While somewhere women are walking out, at two in the morning –

many miles to find water.

While somewhere a bomb is getting ready to explode.

Newsweek’s cover story this week speaks about the “Dinner Divide.”  In this article they compare the nutritious, varied, and stimulating foods some can afford, and then how in the USA, 17% suffer from “food insecurity.”  They don’t know if they will have enough resources to secure food from month to month.   Also, the quality of their food is not of the nutritious kind, but of the fat/salt/carbohydrate kind.  I fall into the elite category, s I think of our choice of almond milk, high fiber cereal, mycoprotein “fake” turkey, and the recent purchase of 32 weeks of local, organic farm products. 

When out for a walk this morning visiting my spouse’s family in Carrollton, GA we passed a household where there was a recent addition to the home. The grandparents had added on to their home so their children and grandchildren could live with.  The parents though died in a car accident, so instead of 3 generations living in a home, there are two.

During our lunch Thanksgiving meal today, amidst our abundance, my spouse’s sister spoke of her difficulty in adopting a child from the Congo, Africa where there are 5 million orphans.

What are we to do with this privileged life in the midst of some many tragic stories happening to someone somewhere?

I believe that the grandparents and my sister-in-law have the response to which I wish to commit myself.  If I find myself with extra gifts – plenty of calories and nutrition and resources – may I find a way to give them in turn to someone somewhere.  This day, and probably, hopefully tomorrow.

What do you do with your elite life?

In Pobiddy, Georgia

Three women climb from the car

in which they have driven slowly

into the churchyard.

They come toward us, to see

what we are doing.

What we are doing

is reading the strange,

wonderful names

of the dead.

One of the women

speaks to us-

after we speak to her.

She walks with us and shows us,

with downward-thrust finger,

which of the dead where her people.

She tells us

about two brothers, and an argument,

and a gun-she points

to one of the slabs

on which there is a name,

some scripture, a handful of red

plastic flowers. We ask her

about the other brother.

"Chain gang," she says,

as you or I might say

"Des Moines," or "New Haven." And then,

"Look around all you want."

The younger woman stands back, in the stiff weeds,

like a banked fire.

The third one-

the oldest human being we have ever seen in our lives-

suddenly drops to the dirt

and begins to cry. Clearly

she is blind, and clearly

she can't rise, but they lift her, like a child,

and lead her away, across the graves, as though

as old as anything could ever be, she was, finally,

perfectly finished, perfectly heartbroken, perfectly wild.

This is the first poem that I have written in its entirety - for I know of no other way to tell the story that left me crying this morning. Mary, you surprised me. Me, a Georgia born gal who thought I had seen everything.

Are you as blind as I have been? The world invites us to look around all we want in the pull and push of Yes, No, and in the end we are here to be heartbroken. Nothing else but this, which is everything.

What