Tag: jeremiah ray literature

fly straight

Today I learned what geese talk about
when they fly,
when they leave for the winter.
I said,
“No, it can’t be,
They look like they have everything,
They really seem to have it all
all figured out.”
from the ground,
gazing up,
up, up, up,
Their direction looks so certain,
Their flight seems so pure,
as if they live with a real purpose.
But now I think I understand what they say
when they are migrating,
when they are flying away.
They are not talking about the view.
They are not talking about the endless horizon, either.
They do not talk about a life of freedom.
Instead, this is what they say:
“I need to keep moving,
If I stop, I will start to think!”
“Will I be attractive
When I get older?”
“I think I’m lovable,
but maybe I’m not.”
“Am I necessary to this company
Or just kidding myself?”
“I pushed away another beautiful soul
and I made it look like their choice.”
I stood there on the ground,
barefoot,
with grass between my toes,
looking up,
feeling surprised and amazed
as they sang their songs overhead.
How could that happen?
But part of me already knew
and part of me understood
Those golden arrows you see can only fly straight
for just so long.

brambles and thorns

The raspberry tasted of youth.
‘How simple
this is,’
I thought, as I waited for
the coffee to brew.
It is raining today,
a cold rain,
a December rain.
It is only a few weeks away
from the solstice.
The days move so swiftly,
rushing after something I can’t quite see.
As I stood watching the rain
and eating the raspberries
that tasted of youth,
I tried to understand
how time keeps moving;
how this day seems to rush by
toward something I can’t see.
It was never like this
in my youth;
Time used to move gently.
I’d stand amongst the raspberries,
free from care,
just careful not to get pricked by the tiny thorns,
and eat, and eat, and eat.
I began to understand,
pulling myself out of my thoughts
and pouring my coffee,
that the raspberry patch was
my kingdom,
I felt safe there
tucked hidden in the thick brambles and thorns.
the world outside
was full of turmoil;
there was a man out there who was so fierce
that a few scratches
from the inside of my kingdom,
my sanctuary,
paled in comparison
to his anger.

geese

snow melts

geese fly overhead

their wings

a steady pattern

they call out to each other

as they continue their journey

heading toward a destination

and leaving another place

questions linger

questions fade

the steady pattern of wings

Do they eat old food?

Is it a chickadee or a nuthatch?
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.
The feeder rests
under the overhang.
I hold my breath and stay still as they come,
their delicate beaks
extracting a single seed;
Their thanks seem to glow in the morning air.
I should replace their food.
How old is it?
Do they eat old food?
I feel unsure about this
and so many other things.
If I take down the feeder,
They might think it’s gone and fly away.
It would take 5 minutes
to refill
but to them,
Maybe that pause feels like five hours or even five months to them.
The rain has made them hurry
when they feed.
They swoop in and quickly fly away
as they flash against the gray sky.
I sit quietly, letting my coffee cool as I watch.
These are only brief moments
for me
Yet for a chickadee, it might be a lifetime
Or perhaps a nuthatch
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.

the bracelet

It’s no longer about the bracelet I bought for you, saying it was just friendship—the one I said wouldn’t be awkward. And it wasn’t, because I never gave it to you. It’s no longer about the small, delicate box left unwrapped at the bottom of my bag, a box I might leave there for months or even years. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible, which feels strange.
I remember thinking, ‘Please let the weather be good so I can catch the one-hour flight.’ Of course, I could take the twelve-hour bus ride, but that would give me more time to think about the stranger I bought a bracelet for. I made the flight; the weather was fine. When my bag came down the luggage slide, I accidentally blessed myself, partly wishing the unwrapped box would disappear, something I wouldn’t want to keep.




Existing

You are old now.
This is how
It happens, right?
all those years of working
just leading up to a couch
and a blaring television.
Your hair is long and white
and eyes that look but do not truly see
Your mind wanders away like the tide
It drifts off somewhere.
In that quiet moment,
that quiet stillness,
you ask how I was feeling.
In two decades, you haven’t.
For twenty years, you’ve looked at me
But you have never seen me.
Now, with your frailty
and knowing you are mortal as I watch you,
in a tiny room
with a loud television,
You ask how I am feeling.
But I think you see a younger
version of yourself
tucked somewhere in me.
“How are you?”
It is in that moment of lucidity,
in the stillness, in
the fragile place where Alzheimer’s
has loosened its hold,
where I only reflect you.
“How are you?”
But it isn’t a question for me.
You are asking,
‘Did I live? or
just exist.’
But the tide goes out,
a stillness returns,
And you go back to just existing.

breathe

I have not forgotten how to,
But I wonder
How I learned.
Have you also tasted
the same air?
How did I learn this?
How did you learn this?
Who held my mouth open
and put these words
in it?
words like “i”
and “you”