Caretaking Closeness by Betty Finocchiaro
Dear one
it is happening again
You cling to me
In fact, you cling to me
everywhere I go
Like velcro
I feel your presence
You are there when I stand in line
at the Supermarket, at the Post Office,
in the Bank, in the Whole Wide World
I cannot turn left nor right
I step on your feet
You Dare to wince
I suffer claustrophobia
you stand so close
I wish for wings
to fly out of my cage
you know none of my thoughts
because you are engrossed in
your own world of confusion
I am beginning to suffer the
same malady
In Her Garden by George Asdel
The only place she was happy
was in her garden.
She would run under the vines
like a child, pick flowers,
sit for hours on a weathered
bench to write her poems.
Then read them to the crows
that gathered around her like
the audiences that listened to her
poems in the cafes of another time.
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Compassionate Release by Elizabeth Buckner
1.
I walked into a poem while exiting the prison about noon
to breathe a bit of free air and run an errand
when I encountered a pretty lady doctor
with long, dark hair, dangling earrings, and a lovely smile
dressed for warmer weather in shirt, skirt, sweater, and sandals
standing next to an inmate sitting in a wheel chair
wearing dress-out clothes. They were waiting.
I passed by this incongruous couple
paused as the inside electric gate snapped, slowly slid open
then entered the sally port and the gate slowly slid shut.
I waited for the heavy gatehouse door to unlock, opened it
passed through, flashed my photo ID at the gatekeepers
aka. correctional officers (COs) and was suddenly enveloped
by an unusual warm energy emanating from everyone standing there:
another physician, three more COs, and a medical social worker I knew.
I asked her, "What are you all waiting for?"
With a smile she said softly, "Our first Compassionate Release* in three years
even though we have requested and been denied many more."
Then the heavy door snapped open
and the doctor wheeled the inmate into the gatehouse
into the presence of the staff who opened their hearts
flooding the room with compassionate love
which washed over the ailing inmate soon to die of a brain tumor.
He was a black man wearing grey sweats, white sneakers
and a black eye patch. (No more prison blues for him.)
A bright crooked smile illuminated his face
reflecting the collective love in the gatehouse
and, for a few minutes, we were all a myriad of fish
swimming in this sea of life, helping each other along
hoping for our own eventual compassionate release.
After the inmate's photo ID was checked
a few official questions asked, documents signed
and $200 in gate money provided, the doctor pushed the wheelchair
through the open door towards his family waiting by their blue car
parked near the flagpole in the bright, spring noonday sun.
(*Compassionate Release is early release for an inmate with less than six months to live.)
2.
I watched another poem in progress
when my future son-in-law, a passionate fisherman
visibly angry with a careless angler who had caught a King Salmon out of season
reeled it in. brutally yanked the hook from its mouth
and flung it back in into the water, not caring if it survived.
My future son-in-law, now a compassionate look on his face
kneeled in the water at the confluence of the Klamath River and Pacific Ocean
cradled the two and a half foot long fish in his arms and slowly rocked it
back and forth in the water, to open its gills, to help it breathe again
then gently released the salmon into the sea.
3.
I listened to a poem in progress
as my friend of fifty years described how she sang farewell
to her only but estranged sister who had suddenly died.
She attended the funeral, was not asked to speak
then remained at the gravesite after the ceremony
alone except for the grave diggers and some curious tourists
as her sister was buried at the Hollywood Memorial Cemetery
the size of one small city block, located just off Wilshire Blvd.
near Westwood Village, hidden by high-rise buildings
sharing soil with Marilyn Monroe, Walter Matthau and other celebrities.
My friend requested some private time and space
to make peace and find release from their rocky relationship
The grave diggers disappeared.
With eyes closed, one hand on the casket, the other marking time
she loudly sang seven spirituals to her sister.
After the last song, "Soon and Very Soon," she opened her eyes to see
the dark-skinned diggers, one dressed in an ill-fitting baggy, black suit and hat
the other wearing work-a-day clothes, leaning on their spades
watching, listening and signifying, "thumbs up." |
