Category Archives: mental health

The coldest knight of the year

Sack of a face. All dragged down by gravity and surrendered muscles. It’s supposed to take more of them to frown than to smile, but nature disagrees. And what’s he doin’ now, that old Aqualung? Shufflin’ along the sidewalk. Dangerous as a stage player. There, he’s found the metal grate, the rising heat curtain. Marilyn Monroe ain’t around today. Takes off his cracked vinyl mitts, sets ’em on the steel, then, by God, his shoes too! Turns ’em upside down for the free warming. He has a small buckle-down suitcase that has kids’ cartoons on it. This is his seat while he warms his feet. It’s funny, you know. He’s at his ease, if you please, as he parts the stream of the flowing crowd. Made his peace, knows his destiny. Has already had his talk. The disdain is theirs. Maybe they see. Some of them stop for our Joe, and they know where to put the coins on him. One woman told him she was coming today with new mitts. If he can stand here long enough, he can store up the warmth for a while. Just yesterday, Joe got told to move on, because he made a mistake. He’d let his bitterness get the best of him, and had jumped out randomly at passers-by, scaring them. Never would hurt anyone, not really. But it’s hard. And now, there she comes. The lady with the red scarf. She waves and smiles, gives him a purple velvet bag with a drawstring top. “Your mitts, Joe”. She smiles and pats his shoulder, then walks on. Joe had nodded and hung his head. He sat a while longer before he opened the bag with cracked fingers. There were his new insulated mittens, and some other things. Some other things. He closed it quickly, put it inside his coat, and hugged himself tightly.

***

[image: https://pixabay.com/users/arttower-5337/ ]

Hero

A scene of old develops and sharpens.
It’s the start of some chapter
in a boy’s learning.

This memory is of being ten.
It has cold misty rains at a train station.
The buying of a ticket
with nickels and quarters and wide eyes.

He is going to see El Cid in Montreal
by himself, with given permission,
maybe implied good riddance,
and certainly a flight to something
contrived, but noble.

It’s a way to forestall fear for the future.
To puzzle out why close people fight
and bury the fallout;
to feel the budding of self-assurance
and, finally, to admire a hero
whom all would love and despair.

Yes, he wanted to be
someone’s hero.

My Man

hunch up those shoulders
carry that hollow barrel chest
on spindly trembling legs
practice your ghostly motions
stare obscenely out of eyes like yellowed olives
your gates are closed for good
and i stand
holding you up
listening to disconnected mutter
while you piss black tar
dribbling onto the floor
and you say “I’m sorry”
my man
oh my man
there’s a hole in my heart.

Silver bells

And the man said
“Well, it’s time to clear the driveway now.”

And Heart said
“I will go along.”

And the man said
“Let’s grab that big plastic scoop.
It runs like a sleigh, and carries a lot.”

And Hands said
“Don’t knuckle under”

And Knees said
“Don’t buckle under”

And the man said, breathing hard,
“It is good to be out here.
Even with the cold. Even with the work.
It makes me feel, you know, somehow worthy.
It will be good for someone.”

And Coyote said
“Yes.”

And Heart said
“Take a break.”

And Lungs said
“Yes.”

Now Bob (the cat) had been playing
under the Christmas tree,
and was covered in ribbons and bells and needles,
and, before you knew it, had run clean out the back door.

And man, finally having finished, leaned upon his shovel
to survey the smoothness of his work.
And Coyote woo wooed his approval,
and the bells on Bob’s tail rang.

And Brain, well SHE said
“The tea is ready, sweetheart. Bedtime soon. Bob will be back.”

***

Image from Pinterest

Child of grace

Just this morning, Clarice went to coma. In hallways of cottony grey she swims, but not aimlessly. She has shed the displeasures of the flesh, and does not feel, as they slide the needles and tubes into it and make the lungs rise and fall. Only hears, in a fast fade, the pops and clicks and hisses. She knows there will be no visitors for a time.

So small now, with lightness, this sprite of being.
The singularity awaits, the neutron star that holds the knowing. She can touch it, she senses, but waits for divine invitation. In her life of walking, she has been shown but parts of its great story and, in those moments, her friends and kin have turned away and left her in quietness.

And soon, we know now, Clarice will return, and fill the languishing body with a spirit of soft fire. The quietness will stay in her person, and grace will shine. If you are the one to whom she turns her eyes, beware, for she may ask you to walk for a while.

Apartment for rent

Erica has her own key
to her own apartment,
on the strength of a job letter.
No more nightly pay,
unwanted bottles,
fancy but fouled dresses.
She sits in the arbourite kitchen
with a half jar of instant
and ten cigarettes.
As a spotted pigeon taps the window,
Erica takes stock.
Of unfinished school,
desperate and frustrated parents,
bad associations.
This donkey’s education.
Soured to life, in the age of exuberance.
Phantom Facebook friends.
It’s so silent in here, she thinks,
and walks, perplexed, to the window
with a finger full of peanut butter.
Bird must be hungry,
’cause it pecks like a jackhammer
and hurts her finger.
She draws back in fright.  It flies away in fright.
What now?  She thinks.  Not a soul, not a soul do I have.
An apartment she has.
And an apartness.  A leper’s loneliness, tonight.