The trumpet series

ImageThe first trumpet – Truth

No one said this would be easy,

Information I heard once, which made me panic. . .

I didn’t enjoy drawing a breath

until years later.  But like an Alaska winter,

I might’ve missed the sun,

But I didn’t remember it either.


The second trumpet – Creativity

When I started to learn to tell stories something happened, which drove the characters into changing.  One was about a guardian angel born at the same time a boy was born, who fell in love with him as he grew up and kept him from meeting anyone he could feel, man or woman, he would be able to love mysteriously and right at home.  Now I build my stories, cement my poems with heavy, unwieldy people, heavy because they live in too much of one emotion, whether aggressiveness or self deprecation or reticence; and mix these with the stones and sand that are the metric that speaks and does not speak—the narrative poem.

I call her Pia.

She has not been able to eat more than a peanut butter Twix and cappuccino,

Diced tomatoes squeezed of juice and seeds, mixed with cucumber, a day,

For months.  She took medicine for her sadness, for years, then medicine for the medicine,

Her thyroid is almost normal, her stomach is in knots.  She does not have an eating disorder

But her sensitivity to strangers and family, one for being intrusive and pushy,

The other for being evasive of love, makes her relationship with food…

Chess-like.  All the skin carved away, the slices thin as her gangly arms:  your move, apple.

The third trumpet – Realize

What happens in a life is not as important as that discovered within…

little happens after all in a lifetime.   I hear: treasure

My faith soars with such a message, shy

I take it: “whose am I?” is the question, not ‘who.’

I reach for the necklace at my throat for a moment, touch the sleek beads.

It steadies me at a different octave than that one

 I’d grown accustomed to.

 The fourth trumpet  – Fear

There is no reason to fear you won’t get what you want.

Fear does not build, and it does not detract. It is instead of serenity and hope and it affects

your breathing. But it doesn’t change what will be and what won’t, and you understand this perfectly

when what you want happens.  Or, even more fully, you stand in this reality

When what you want does not. 

 Grace Note

I hardly ever believe in death. I am like you when you say you don’t believe in God.  I have all this evidence, even people with steady connections to me who die, yet I don’t believe it.  No one is here except me and my youngest child who talks himself to sleep two rooms over and my husband who is typing near me in the next room.  My daughter is asleep in her room and she is just as much here as the rest of us. But I have such reliance on sound that I can’t feel her.  Is it such a leap to imagine that her sleeping self has not gone anywhere, that people don’t disappear, that she was there last time I checked, and that the world isn’t shaken to the point that people who sleep in the next room one moment are not here the next?  She is dreaming in private, just as she thinks, but without the barely perceptible cues, and when I reach to sense her I do, but the invisible extension comes from me and moves outward and I tell myself this sense is just imagination.  I can’t see through walls. She just woke up and came out of her room. Haha. Very much here too.

The fifth trumpet – Hope

Fear does not detract. It does not build anything.

Yet, I tie myself up into this hummingbird’s heart fear. It’s like being visited

by a storm that is happening to my heart… my lungs… my throat…my nerves.

Yet I feel cold and peaceful…motionless within…

when I once more believe in the truth, a shared experience,

when a man begin to talk about his own fear: “For me…” he says, and I can, too.

 Other times the blood near my heart blooms

when someone speaks simply, like setting down a marble on a table.

It rolls into my lap.  It may be easy to say:

 that chill does not detract and it doesn’t build anything.

That warmth is pretend.  Yet you belligerently deny

what I try to teach you of the nothingness of fear!

 Fine: fear is as real as a river. So, too, that chill? That warmth?

Are canoes.  Are oars.


 photo credit:


2 thoughts on “The trumpet series

  1. Shattering (as any trumpet might need to be) inner complacency. These vignettes, these pieces continue your dynamic, the will and the power to refuse bullshit answers. They undermine, yet root themselves someone in these dimensions that are misnamed the quotidian. As usual I find myself shocked. You disrupt indolence. The teeth of a terrier.


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