The following poem was passed on to me by a chaplain at Gosnold at Cataumet on Cape Cod in Massachusetts where she is engaged with spirituality work with the inpatient drug and alcohol rehab folks. The young man who shared it was willing to have it passed on to bless others.
Out on the bog this morning
A group of deer ate cranberries, I guess.
I stood watching, sucking down menthol
And nicotine as the day found 2nd gear
One was a fawn.
Either one of the others was its mother,
Or else she was gone.
Either way, she must have spent the winter
Starving, getting by on bark and mosses,
Licking salt from afterstorm roadsides,
Digging down through snowbanks as tall as herself
To get at tiny, splintering roots,
Anything to keep the tiny thing inside her
Alive until spring.
My story’s not much different
My past is a dirty windowsill, where old failures
And poisonous promises lie scattered
Like desiccated husks of hornets
Who somehow found themselves
Trapped between the rusted screen
And the barely transparent glass
And themselves starved,
Butting their heads against one or the other
Until there was nothing left to do but twitch.
Now all that christless snow is gone
And there is
The promise of new life.
I feel like I’m sunburned and frostbitten.
“What’s the point of calling shots? The cue ain’t straight in line, the cue-ball is made of styrofoam and no one’s keeping time?”
Someone is always
April 26, 2015 (Sean M.)