Resurrection

                                                                                                

Here, in this moment

where our skin is submerged,

and there are no shrouds,

no reputations

to unravel,

die with me

just once

while we are still breathing,

 

only holding

            the greatest possible good,

            complete and utter despair,

without preference—

to

die,

wake,

taste

this exquisite life.

 

Can we stop

everything together,

notice

that the flow of breath

continues

without our willing it so?

 

Michael R.I.P.

Michael R.I.P.

Frank Antonicelli, a good friend and author of “Know Your Enemy: taking the fight to cancer”, and I collaborated on this poem as a way of coping with the recent, sudden death of our mutual, long time buddy, Michael Barbaro. Vinny, as many called him, was a tender hearted man… one of a kind….  he will be missed…  I will take a moment to hug those most important to me today and say “I Love You.” I am grateful for family and friends.  peacefully, Matt 

a gift for you

a gift for you

Pablo Neruda wrote about how an early childhood experience framed why he wrote. While playing in the yard as a young child, he was near a fence and suddenly a small hand came through the fence, the size of a child about his age. This was followed closely by a small stuffed toy sheep. He was touched by this and went to his house and returned with his favorite pine cone and put it through the fence as a gift in return. He never met the giver of the gift. He reflected that we all expect to receive kind regards from those we know, but gifts given from those we do not know can be even more impactful. His writing became a way of giving a gift to those he would never meet.

This story helps me to understand that every single living thing has a gift that it can share with the world. Giving this gift brings us to a place that fills us up and also fills up others, many of whom we may never meet or know, and in ways we may never understand. Sitting here in Georgia in mid January, I wrote this poem with gratitude and as my gift for you, whoever you are.

Danny Boy

first day at college

first person I met

across the hall suite mate

from longkisland

we walked to orientation

slight southern lady politely

thick southern drawl

do things on Taime

don’t get Behaind

first belly laugh in college

first time I did not feel alone

 

fast forward 35 years

many many memories

my friend died too soon

sheepish full mouth grin

sharp wit

ability to talk paint off a wall

immediate knowledge of a person’s

strengths and weaknesses

firmly held opinions

love for family friends hobbies

will all be missed

over time

but he will not be left behind

morning stretch

no-see-ums bite my arms and ankles

still, warm, humid 7AM

haze from the cardboard plant

combined with mist from last night’s rain

moves in ground clouds through the low hilled valley

giving body to an imperceptible north wind

 

somewhere

a mother can’t find her 3 year old child

who sits in a separate cell because

she didn’t know the rules of entry

 

somewhere

grandparents, dad, cousins, uncles

celebrate the long awaited

birth of a first child

continuing a long lineage

 

here

the sound of a single bird is deafening

as my silent soul stretches

to hold it all as one

a gardener's favorite of all flowers

once a week

maybe twice in deep winter

I fill up two plastic 32 ounce gas station cups

and one half that size

with black sunflower seeds, then

dutifully march them over to fill

the forest green cylindrical bird feeder

found at a yard sale a few years ago

for two dollars (best bargain ever)

 

During these visits

I watch and listen to the birds

on slow days I talk out loud

and wonder if they listen

as they chirp, flutter, preen 

and wait for me to leave so they can eat

 

every spring

some random container

in which I would never dare attempt

to turn seed to plant

issues forth a medium sized spiky sunflower

which screams about unintended results

and kindness returned

 

the birds seem to watch

as I am fed by these

favorite of all flowers

limitless participation

Silence

cradles life

on the North facing porch this morning

two dogs snore

charcoal gray striped cat stares

a couple of black flies and a tiny tan moth

frame the hazy humid valley below

after last nights thunderstorm

only the highest wispy tree branches

sway just a little

air handlers rumble

along with invisible airplanes above, cars below

the occasional piercing chirp of a mockingjay

 

so this is

how it feels

to chug the joy

that flows from the heart of God

drunk off love

Lost and Found

I am instantly lost

in the towered big city maze of the past

where a hazy remembrance of  life’s landmark events

serves as the only available point of reference.

I go there to uncover old wounds

allowing new air into stale, dark vacuum sealed places

that they may breathe again

become alive again

maybe even be repaired.

 

All of this

fueled by an irrational hope

for a future freed of past encumbrances.

 

After many voyages, I now know

this well intentioned exploration

alone by itself

does not work.

 

And then an unexpected breeze caresses my cheek,

I stop

simply come home

to this present here and now,

and unbridled love gallops in

opens, heals, forgives, then

I am freedom found.

At Depth

I do not find it that difficult

to know anymore

what is real and what is fake.

 

a young mother buries her murdered

high school daughter who made the decision

to go to school that day as usual

 

our president played with a porn star

his wife too distracted after childbirth

to pay him proper attention

 

just this morning an ordinary brown and tan finch lay

defeathered, picked apart on my porch cement—

had it seen the blue sky reflected

in our glassed door and flown full flight

into solid surface? Our cat likely

finished the job because

that is what cats do with twitching feathery things.

 

I followed my normal practice

of handling dead small animals

gently picked up the carcass and carried it

beneath a ginkgo tree to a planter

that holds perennial lemon balm

quiet underground now in early March

and I dug out a handful of black dirt

enough to lay the body to rest, then

covered it, patted down the soil and

said a prayer:

 

Help me to remember

when I see you again

at depth and always

we are lemon balm in full flower.

Trust

"the temptor came to him and said: If you are the son of God, tell these stones to become loaves of bread"  Matthew 4:3

 

barely submerged stones,

bread for bright green algae in this gurgling summer stream,

require no alteration

to feed my rumbling, empty

being