April, 2026
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The Visit
I visit with a good friend today
And find him crying.
My impulse is to lift his spirit
From whatever darkness has overtaken him.
“Would you like a hug,” I ask
And he nods yes to me.
Holding my friend in my arms
I feel his shaking,
His heart beating,
The expansion and release of his ribs
With each inhale and exhale.
I see the air that comes into his nostrils
Watch as it journeys into his lungs
As his heart pumps
As oxygen molecules attach themselves
To the riverboats
Riding on arterial rivers
That travel north and south
Coast to coast
Deposited at cellular transfer depots
Like baggage being transferred
From ship to dock
Each atom of oxygen
Picked up and greeted on its arrival
The contents of the molecules
Sorted from their shipping crates
And instantly put to use
Enlivening the recipient
Who then gives back
What was not of use
Along with a small gift
As together they rejoin the river boats
On the mighty rivers
Flowing further into the interior
And then back into the lungs
Where again the boats take on new passengers
New suitcases
Brought to recipients in need.
I notice my friend has stopped sobbing
His feet are rooted more firmly on the earth
Whose energy helps him stand upright.
We look at each other
We step apart
No words are spoken,
We smile.
POETRY
Where “it” all came from – my ultimate view.
We can never find “the cause” of where all this immense amount of matter, energy, light, atoms, and mass we call reality came from because any cause must itself have a cause … ad infinitum. That leaves the possibility the universe could have emerged from “nothing” – no space, time, or matter – by some fluctuation, movement, or other quality that is inherent in nothingness. The problem with this is that there must be something for there to be nothing, because separately nothing cannot be distinguished unless there is something. This suggests to me that we can’t determine the origin of mass and matter, inasmuch as our concept of “reality” may not /does not reflect actual reality … even nothing requires a cause. And to me, this represents as profound a distortion as when humans believed that the sun rotated around a flat earth. It was incontestable and yet a totally wrong view of reality. So to our current notions.
JOURNAL ENTRIES
fathers await their sons
fathers await their sons
and sons await their fathers.
who is it they hope shows up?
someone honorable
someone loving
smart and athletic
is good
courageous perhaps
respectful
loyal
fathers and sons
adoring each other
in a love unrivalled
fathers also crush their sons
they lie and spit
and scratch their asses in public
they talk a great game
and sometimes live it
but often not
they await each other
father and son
in utero
at the threshold
in the schoolyard
from the battlefields
in their hearts
some times they harden
as they must
they accept limitations
they break
like porcelain
leaving sharp edges
and tiny shards
they break like chains
of bondage
they break like bone
first the blood vessels constrict
then the cells die
then if fortunate
they bridge the fracture gap
and find one another
right inside themselves
hoping to remodel
in love
not rage
accepting
toiling
bonding
terrified of their needs
admiring
seeking a relationship
and guidance
poor telemachus
a man among men
brtaub
© 05/07
POETRY
The Blood Test
Watching in awe and wonder
As a well-trained woman
Named Light
Who makes her living
Washing her hands
And putting on thin blue gloves
To pierce veins leading back to the heart
Asking people to repeat their birthdates
To prove they know who they are.
My blood is rich
I am rich
Still, like my blood
The challenge of moving
From where I was
To where I must go is real.
And the ventricles must beat
To take the steps needed
To reach the bank, the grocer’s,
The transfer station oasis
Where I separate garbage from fact
And am then ready
To journey on.
POETRY
The World is Both Burning and Blooming – Karen Salmansohn
You get the bad news
and the sunrise in the same day.
You cry over the headlines,
then you laugh at a baby
wearing a hat shaped like a bear.
This is the dual citizenship
of being alive.
Rage and reverence,
Grief and grace.
You are allowed to feel both.
You are allowed to scream,
& still notice how good the soup is.
You don’t have to choose.
Let it all in.
*******
Editor’s note – In a world that breeds despair joy is defiance.
The 80 Year Old Virgin
The 80 year old virgin
Needed quite the shove
Though it’s true that she had known of men
This time it seemed like love.
It’s quite a tender story
I’m not sure of where to start
But if you asked our heroine
She’d say it was her heart
Or if she’d really let you know
She’d make mention of the gate
The one that yielded down below
On occasions that she’d mate
And there were all the offspring
Numbers one, two, three, and four
And physical penetration
Both in and out the door
But still the sense that this was new
Pervaded her whole being
In ways they say that once blind folk
Newly report they’re seeing
It started in a yoga class
The sense that this was new
For even those of 80 years
Can see they’re not quite through.
A tingling I think she’d say
In parts that long lay still
An opening of her heart and thighs
Quite vigorous and shrill
A pounding of the vesicles
An awakening of the senses
I’m sure you know at eighty years
She long since had her menses
She’d said goodbye to thoughts of love
She’d music as her passion
But this was more than notes or wishes
This wakening of her mind and fissures
A quickening to the words and deeds
That spoke of hopes and parted weeds
She said she’d never felt or known
The ways she’d laugh and how she’d moan
It’s all quite new, exciting, fresh
The joys she felt in mind and flesh.
Take me, she said, though surely shy
I’ve left clay soils, I’m flying high
I’m frightened – sure
Of course that’s true
But this is real, these feelings new.
I never felt such passion or urges
Nor sought relief from shrinks or sages
I just accepted this as fate
And I was sure it was too late
To think of love in quite this way
As to her virgin heart she’d say
I love my kin, I’ve let men in
But here I am, it isn’t sin
I’ve throw away all fear and guilt
I lay quite open on his quilt.
POETRY