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December 15, 2024
I have come to the conclusion that I have entered a new phase in my life, and that I am trying to adjust my behavior and expectations so that they are realistic and age-appropriate. I characterize this phase as preparing to die, and this involves an immense amount of acceptance as well as personal growth. While my consciousness and intellect seems to still operate at what I would call an adult level, my body is very clearly diminished in its capacities. God forbid I would have a fatal disease and a terminal diagnosis and this would all be more urgent and real. But the fact is that I am 84 years old and significantly weaker, limited, and slowed, and sooner or later I will stop breathing, lose consciousness, and no longer exist as a self-aware person occupying space on planet Earth. I have even come to imagine that there is some aspect of my being that is present in me, that preceded and existed before there was a me as such, and that actually may continue as an energetic entity without there being this Bruce as either consciousness or as an embodiment. Soul or spirit is what this entity is popularly referred to as, but those words really don’t have specific enough meaning for me to use them casually. But it is something beyond individual molecules, although if molecules turn out to be “alive” and energetic, which they must be, then I really have no idea what I’m talking about.
In any event, in the same way as if I had a terminal illness, I have a terminal is-ness and I know it, can feel it, appreciate it, accept it…and almost welcome it. I have separation anxiety, but not really non-existence anxiety. The universe is simply too immense in all dimensions, but especially time, for me to expect that my personal self-consciousness has any likelihood of persistence beyond my extinguishment. The drop of mist or spray that momentarily appears as an independent entity on the crest of an ocean wave and then falls back as H2O united with the great oceans is still the clearest analogy I can find to the notion of what my individual existence is. It’s actually a nice feeling when I perceive it in that manner.
And so I lay abed a lot, reading, listening to music, eschewing politics, challenged by how to fill the time, irrelevant and unproductive, comfortably breathing, knowing, being, appreciating. I am almost happy.
Don’t fall in love with a woman who reads
Don’t fall in love with a woman who reads,
a woman who feels too much,
a woman who writes…
Don’t fall in love with an educated, magical, delusional, crazy woman.
Don’t fall in love with a woman who thinks,
who knows what she knows
and also knows how to fly;
a woman sure of herself.
Don’t fall in love with a woman who
laughs or cries making love,
knows how to turn her spirit into flesh;
let alone one that loves poetry (these are the most dangerous),
or spends half an hour contemplating a painting
and isn’t able to live without music.
Don’t fall in love with a woman who is interested
in politics and is rebellious and
feels a huge horror from injustice.
One who does not like to watch television at all
Or a woman who is beautiful
no matter the features of her face or her body.
Don’t fall in love with a woman who is intense,
entertaining, lucid and irreverent.
Don’t wish to fall in love with a woman like that.
Because when you fall in love
with a woman like that,
whether she stays with you or not,
whether she loves you or not,
from a woman like that, you never come back.
~Martha Rivera-Garrido
my brain and heart divorced ~ john roedel
my brain and
heart divorced
a decade ago
over who was
to blame about
how big of a mess
I have become
eventually,
they couldn’t be
in the same room
with each other
now my head and heart
share custody of me
I stay with my brain
during the week
and my heart
gets me on weekends
they never speak to one another
– instead, they give me
the same note to pass
to each other every week
and the notes they
send to one another always
say the same thing:
“This is all your fault”
on Sundays
my heart complains
about how my
head has let me down
in the past
and on Wednesday
my head lists all
of the times my
heart has screwed
things up for me
in the future
they blame each
other for the
state of my life
there’s been a lot
of yelling – and crying
so,
lately, I’ve been
spending a lot of
time with my gut
who serves as my
unofficial therapist
most nights, I sneak out of the
window in my ribcage
and slide down my spine
and collapse on my
gut’s plush leather chair
that’s always open for me
~ and I just sit sit sit sit
until the sun comes up
last evening,
my gut asked me
if I was having a hard
time being caught
between my heart
and my head
I nodded
I said I didn’t know
if I could live with
either of them anymore
“my heart is always sad about
something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried
about something that may happen tomorrow,”
I lamented
my gut squeezed my hand
“I just can’t live with
my mistakes of the past
or my anxiety about the future,”
I sighed
my gut smiled and said:
“in that case,
you should
go stay with your
lungs for a while,”
I was confused
the look on my face gave it away
“if you are exhausted about
your heart’s obsession with
the fixed past and your mind’s focus
on the uncertain future
your lungs are the perfect place for you
there is no yesterday in your lungs
there is no tomorrow there either
there is only now
there is only inhale
there is only exhale
there is only this moment
there is only breath
and in that breath
you can rest while your
heart and head work
their relationship out.”
this morning,
while my brain
was busy reading
tea leaves
and while my
heart was staring
at old photographs
I packed a little
bag and walked
to the door of
my lungs
before I could even knock
she opened the door
with a smile and as
a gust of air embraced me
she said
“what took you so long?”
Cape Cod
November, 2012
I love Cape Cod. It is sweet, and soft, and impermanent. I return here for two weeks – after the San Francisco visit, which I saw as such a triumph – for what seems like too few days. I come home to Joy, of course, and my most lovely cottage, about to get lovelier, and my most lovely son. To Thanksgiving, which for me is a National Day of Mourning, because, as we say, every day is a day of thanksgiving, and only some need to be marked for mourning, Columbus Day, and Memorial Day, for example.
The Indigenous People of MA are descendants of Massasoit, the Wampanoag chief betrayed by those lovely Pilgrims seeking religious freedom, his son’s head displayed on a pike in the village of Plymouth for twenty years after the white warriors returned home from Connecticut to celebrate the burning of 70 Pequot women and children in the first Thanksgiving. Yet the Wampanoag are still here, their language still spoken, their children still proud, the Earth still their mother, offering hope and good wishes to all, feeding 300 guests, calling for an end to war, offering hope and fellowship to their brothers and sisters struggling to protect their land and preserve their culture … in the Americas, in Palestine, and in all places where the guns and warships of the oppressor threaten the lives of the indigenous people.
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At Home – Al Fin
I arrive home from Africa on a Monday morning at 2 A.M., drive down to the bay to see and smell it, to feel it blow and tingle. There is a strange light low on the night horizon glowing to the North Northwest, maybe Boston. The house itself is shocking in its level of disrepair and disorganization. I take off my Maasai watch and I get down to work, mostly on my back, in bed, in my office. The writer is in. Also the lawyer. And the lover. Once or twice the lawn and garden care guy. And, inevitably, the guy with foot-in-mouth disease.
I don’t leave the property until late Thursday afternoon – and then reluctantly – no car rides, no stores, no yoga, no phone. Glad I got home early given imminent PreTrial appearance date and obligations thereto. Even glad I’m here for the finals of the home renovation experience. Do a fair amount of straightening, laundry, floor sweeping, furniture moving, pissing off the crew. Watering houseplants. Measure out pills for the week. Hang out my shingle: “The writer is in.” Write. Play at being the housekeeper. Even cook. Listen to a lot of music. Don’t criticize myself. Clean things. Organize and put away things. Rest. Spend a lot of time feeding the fire. The house smells of smoke, incense, and paint.
I make cranberry lemon biscuits, cornbread, lemon-blueberry tea, pots and pots of coffee, Kenyan roast potatoes, and Zanzabarian sage merlot bean and potato stew with shallots and fresh garden kale.
Joy works. It’s what she does in addition to making music and spending a little time with me, even though I trust she finds me precious, even adorable.
I start to work in the yard and on the gardens. It feels so good to have clippers and a rake in my hand. Start to clean and organize the shed. Prepare witness lists and pretrial memoranda.
Sometimes I talk to Joy about Africa. But it is hard … and far away … and I’ve turned into a very here and now, present centered sort of fellow. I haven’t had a watch on for 5 days. And it is “crazy” being home, although if i don’t step outside the house i seem to be able to exert adequate stimulation control to stay grounded.
Alone – Jack Gilbert
I never thought Michiko would come back
after she died. But if she did, I knew
it would be as a lady in a long white dress.
It is strange that she has returned
as somebody’s dalmatian. I meet
the man walking her on a leash
almost every week. He says good morning
and I stoop down to calm her. He said
once that she was never like that with
other people. Sometimes she is tethered
on their lawn when I go by. If nobody
is around, I sit on the grass. When she
finally quiets, she puts her head in my lap
and we watch each other’s eyes as I whisper
in her soft ears. She cares nothing about
the mystery. She likes it best when
I touch her head and tell her small
things about my days and our friends.
That makes her happy the way it always did.
Death of the Dolphin
There had been small craft advisories,
Their boats were fewer,
Seas ran five to eight feet
With variable winds out of the northeast
Gusting to forty knots
Moving with the pod
Warm southern waters flowed into the currents.
As the storm abated and seas subside
We pass Provincetown
‘Round the horn
Passed the buoy
Into the sensations of the bay
Seas two to four feet
Sun obscured and waters warm
Echoes echo over the distances
Off the top and bottom
The floor and the air
Wave action pushing me toward land
Been in these waters before.
Now slightly disoriented
Separated from the group
In too shallow water
The waves are foamy
Something’s not right
Sensing hazard
The tides confusing
I bottom out
Helpless and alone
Sand below and around me
Socked in on my belly
I do not wrestle
I die, fin up,
Without struggle,
Resigned on the shore.
POETRY
- 99 Gratitudes in 3 Minutes – A Yoga Chanting Poem
- A Poem is Born
- After The News
- Alan
- Alan Is Dead
- American Wedding, 2011
- Ask the Sphinx – 2 approaches
- Baggage Claim
- Beach Plum Jam
- Beau Dies
- between spiders
- Burnt Wood – for Bubi
- Conversation With A Ladle
- Coyote in the Headlights
- Coyote in the House
- Crow’s Song
- Daybreak
- Death Factories
- Death of the Dolphin
- Furry Bug
- Gospel of the Redwoods
- Insects in Amber
- It: In Honor of Dr. Seuss
- Journey to Standing Rock
- Kevin Garnett in Africa
- Life among the barbarians
- Long ago, perhaps yesterday
- Mandalay Hills
- Mesquite Dunes
- Miles’ Ashes
- Miles’ Journey
- My First Yoga Teacher
- One Drop of Rain
- Salton Sea
- Self Love
- Sunrise
- The Love Life of Clams
- Throwing Away
- Turn up for Turnips – a song
- Uncle Sol
- What The Stones Say
- when spring arrives ice flows out of the bay
- Whispering Among The Gods
- Willow
- Winter Fog
- Work and Love are What Really Matter: a reunion poem for the BHS class of 1958 reunion
Tryst with Death – Gina Puorro
death asked me to join him for dinner
so I slipped into my favorite black dress
that I had been saving for a special occasion
and let him walk me to our candlelit tryst.
He ordered a ribeye, extra rare
I ordered two desserts and red wine
and then I sipped
and wondered
why he looked so familiar
and smelled like earth and memory.
He felt like a place both faraway
and deep within my body
A place that whispers to me
on the crisp autumn breeze
along the liminal edges of dusk and dawn
somewhere between dancing
and stillness.
He looked at me
with the endless night sky in his eyes
and asked
‘Did you live your life, my love?’
As I swirled my wine in its glass
I wondered If I understood the thread I wove into the greater fabric
If I loved in a way that was deep and freeing
If I let pain and grief carve me into something more grateful
If I made enough space to be in awe that flowers exist
and take the time to watch the honeybees
drink their sweet nectar
I wondered what the riddles of regret and longing
had taught me
and if I realized just how
beautiful and insignificant and monstrous and small we are
for the brief moment that we are here
before we all melt back down
into ancestors of the land.
Death watched me lick buttercream from my fingers
As he leaned in close and said
‘My darling, it’s time.’
So I slipped my hand into his
as he slowly walked me home.
I took a deep breath as he leaned in close
for the long kiss goodnight
and I felt a soft laugh leave my lips
as his mouth met mine
because I never could resist a man
with the lust for my soul in his eyes
and a kiss that makes my heart stop.
Valentines Day in Israel
The waves are rough in the sea of love
This Valentines Day
Crows fly into the wind
Hoping for leverage
Seeking support
Buffeted though free
They call but no one hears
Accusations fly through the air
The sounds of lovers unheard, unheralded
Fractured families longing for simplicity and rest
Comfort, unambiguous pleasure
Safe harbors to anchor in
Sometimes it feels like a kiss
Sometimes just a breeze passing by
The sea is rough in Israel
This Valentines Day
Waves crash onto the shore
Depositing beautiful shells
The tiny homes of lonely sea creatures
Onto the sandy beach
That Palestinians are forbidden to walk upon
Where a man draws names on the beach with sticks
Then draws a big valentine around the names
Then writes the words, “Free Palestine”
His heart breaking with the weight of love
He builds a wall to protect his creation in the sand
But the sea is restless and just
And softly erases it all.
I Sleep with Rachel Corrie
I sleep with Rachel Corrie
Meditate on her message and meanings
She is smiling though dead
Her head tilted to her left
Her head tilted to her left
Her blond shoulder length hair
Tucked behind her ears
An all American girl
Who loved justice and the Palestinian people
Crushed by a Cat D9 bulldozer
With a restricted field of vision
And several blind spots
This last part sounds familiar no doubt
Now but a memory, a martyr
A poster on the door
Of a home in Palestine
Where her mother comes to visit
To see for herself what moved her daughter
Who wrote
“A massive military machine is killing
The people I’m having dinner with
I am witness to the destruction of a people.”
The older Palestinian woman
In whose home the poster I sleep with hangs
Has seen more than her share of humiliation
Jail
Her land stolen
And death
She says to Rachel’s mother
“There is a field where flowers grow in our village
That is called Rachel Corrie
There are streets and plazas named for her
Your daughter is our daughter
Our daughters are your daughters
We will never forget your daughter
She is with us every day
Every time this door slides closed
Every time this door slides opened”
An American Court found
The bulldozer that killed Rachel
Was paid for by U.S. Government funds
But declined to rule on the merits
Concluding that whether the financing of such bulldozers was just
Or appropriate
Was a political question
Not entrusted to the Judicial Branch
On the same day Rachel was killed
Nine Palestinians were also murdered by Israeli forces
Including a man aged 90
And a child aged four
While Rachel, second wife of Jacob
Who stole her father’s idols
Was cursed unintentionally
By the husband who loved her
And died
The way of women upon her
Her doors slid open
Her doors slid closed forever
Tears in her eyes
Words on her lips
Crying for the end
To her family’s suffering
© BRTaub, Ja’ayus, Palestine – Valentines Day 2008