Long Physical therapy Poems
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The Senior Center was a beehive of active waiting
to die.
Bingo
but not ballroom dancing.
Knitting
but not garden expansions.
Physical therapy
but not yoga
and not chi gong,
much less mindful meditations
sung in four part harmony.
The new guy,
just growing into sixty-five,
asked them
How would we like to be remembered
one hundred years from now?
That doesn't seem likely,
I know,
but perhaps more likely together
than playing Solitaire
side by side.
I would like to be remembered
as healers of The River
said a somber SeptemberGenerian woman
surrounded by ancient lady friends.
No one needed to ask why.
We all knew
what was coming downriver
for future regenerations
of thirsty toxined minds
with biodiverse bodies.
And so we found younger allies
who owned property along The River,
beginning with the railroad company,
and the Mohegans
and the Pequots,
where a Senior knew a Senior
with a well-placed daughter,
and sometimes a son
of unusual cooperative and long-term focus.
Together we planted firs
and cedars along polluted and denuded banks,
for future generations to manage,
harvest for housing
and furniture
and fiber
and possibly even coffins
waiting for memories of polluted rivers
to die.
That was one hundred years ago
we started
in this regenerative Senior Center,
and still going strong
as each year
a new incoming class
of those who finally reached sixty-five
joined our river healing project,
more recently also producing fruit trees
and berries,
flax
and hemp,
mushrooms
and nuts
and sweetgrass baskets
woven by SeptemberGenerians.
Women and a few surviving men
and some more in-between
smiling together
at the round cedar table in the back,
remembering Elder healers
of our barren land
and naked River.
Maybe it's just ageing me.
So, I'm asking,
as focused yet open
as I could ever hope to encompass,
transparently vulnerable
Do negative correlations
distancing inhaling
from exhaling
EarthMother's sentient WorldView
resemble, for you,
too,
a reverse correlation,
dipolar co-arising
appositional contrast,
in-between organically grasping on
and sacredly letting off?
I am not sure why
this question could be economically
or politically
or psychologically
or neurologically significant
In this time of great polarized
climate EarthHealth v EconomicWealth cultural crisis,
and yet,
it persistently seems so
as I attempt,
in my Earth-bound solitude,
to exhale and dissociate from
left hemisphere verbal
monopolizing
monotheistic
demanding anthropocentric dominance
To inhale and grasp toward
more right hemisphere nonverbal
co-passion communing physical therapy
re-associating
re-syncing metaphysical thought
and physical feeling
re-communing organic and sacred
re-ligioning
Green
and blue
and red
ultra-violet transforming
Earth's climate health
grasping fresh inhalations
while exhausting stale patriarchal capitalism's
straight white male preserving
reiterative hortatory,
Might Makes God Right
Grasping and exhausting reactionary nonresponsiveness
to our organic belongings
and sacred longings
for EarthHealth
and DemocraticWealth,
co-passionate points of WorldView.
Why can I not write?
I am overwhelmed
By the minutiae of everyday life!
Dawn comes, and I awake, but no!
I pull the covers over my head
And close my eyes tightly
Against the coming day.
I am not ready yet!
When I can avoid it no longer
I sit up and dress, reluctantly,
Take the dog out, bring
Him in and feed him,
Give him fresh water.
Give him his pills and
Spray his poor shaven rat tail
With anti-itch lotion,
(He has a hot spot!)
And put some ointment on it.
I fix some breakfast,
Wash it down with yesterday’s coffee.
Take the cats some fresh water,
Get them their breakfast,
And clean the litter,
Wipe Sweetie Pie’s eyes
And put drops in them.
I’ll comb out both Sophie
And Sweetie Pie later on.
I make my bed and
Clean up the dishes,
Get out my big green backpack
And put Doug’s clean clothes in it.
Oops! I forgot to start the laundry
I brought home yesterday!
It’s already 10:30, and I
Have to leave by five to eleven!
Spray on the sun lotion,
Check that I have my Patriot ferry
Pass and the SPF 50 lip balm
Doug asked me to get.
It’s hot and humid, but I trudge
Twenty minutes to the ferry
For the half-hour boat ride
That I actually enjoy!
Just me, the water, sun and breeze
For 30 minutes of quiet
For my not-so-peaceful mind.
Three hours to have lunch with Doug,
Bring him up-to-date with
All the news of friends and family,
Watch him in physical therapy
And learn what I will have to do
In a few weeks when he gets home!
Back to the van, back to the Patriot ferry,
And another brief time for myself.
I walk home, hot and tired.
Take Andy out, finish the laundry
And hang it out on the line.
I think it won’t rain tonight.
Run to the store for some
Necessities, cat food in particular,
Check the e-mail, answer some notes,
Water the parched garden
Take Andy for a walk, and
Then feed him his dinner.
Time for MY dinner, but what?
Let’s see. I sauté a couple of
Chicken tenders in the small pan,
Slice up a whole tomato,
Add some cantaloupe and cottage cheese,
Eat some of it and fall asleep
In the chair in front of the
Fan on its highest setting.
I wake up with a start and make
Myself get up and clean up the kitchen,
Afterwards, I watch a couple
Of mindless television shows
While I make mental lists
Of what I have to do tomorrow.
In novels, love is the obstacle overturned by the ardent swain
In song, love is a grandiose solo in melodic chains
In poetry, love is fervent rhyme in syncopated refrain
In movies, love is a monologue in the rain
In real life, love is made of little things
Of scraping burnt crust off the grilled cheese
Of putting his favorite soda in the fridge, to be cold when he gets home
Of giving up the comfy chair to his aching back
Of putting ice in plastic bags to sooth the shocking jolts of pain in his spine
Of slipping his shoes on and off because he can not bend to do it
Of sleeping alone in the king-size bed upstairs because climbing steps is too excruciating for his weakened legs
Of driving him through rainy rush-hour traffic for his physical therapy
Of watching his face contort when he walks and knowing there are no words of comfort to abate his agony
Of smiling at his goofy jokes, just to have an instant of relief
Of linking fingers while waiting for what the doctor will say
Little things are the cushion
When the world comes down.
2/7/19
Form:
Ms. Mary was usually sitting in her La-Z-Boy chair! She loved to watch Blue Bloods on the television and was a Tom Selleck fan. With a sweet and lovely smile, she welcomed us in! She gave Joy, the Newfoundland therapy dog, a pat on the head! Then Joy laid down by her chair while we talked about her grandchildren and the people at Brookdale.
Ms. Mary was a Methodist, and she spoke about her church family too! She had lived in the area since the 70’s, and she owned her home since that time. She was so very thankful that her granddaughter and her family were there now.
I spoke about Joy and what she liked. She would look at Joy with loving gaze. Some weeks we’d see Miss Mary in the halls and she’d be using her walker. She would always stop and give joy a pat on the head. She was truly loved by the other resident and the employees too!
One day we went to Ms. Mary’s door, and knocked on it. The door was locked, and I was alarmed because that had never been locked before. I said a quick prayer for her, and week after week the same thing happened. I couldn’t ask at the front desk, because I’m only a volunteer. I was able to ask another resident, and she said was in physical therapy. Each week was just the same, until I noticed the her name on the door was gone. I was guessing her family moved her on to a different place.
Ms. Mary, it was a pleasure to know you, and we’ll never forget you!
I never knew angst to be so devilish a thing
Taking me from a million clean years,
To ABC house of booze, because,
My blood money was abused by him
Wrecking the Kia Sportage I was strapped in
A passenger, pained to point of surgeries.
And on a rainy morning he swore resenting
Driving me to physical therapy,
And before the settlement, made his request:
"...Do my bathroom floor like yours."
And half of what I got was to be his
He carved such rules I broke in time
And kept secret what figures were mine.
But, lo and behold I sat pondering, counting pennies
And the devil drove me to think...
I should drink to that
All I got, and shared, and fail to stash.
Who knew Canadian whiskey would whisk me to detox?
And I, a recovering addict/alcoholic chose house of God
In AA I'd sit with alcoholics sharing what they drank,
How, when, where.
I'd rather say never again.
*
in an
angst- saturated
moment i find you there in
my travel bag, injured by the neglect of
a poorly screwed-on sparkling water bottle cap:
my beloved poetry notebook of fifteen years. You are
now one-third soaked and stained at the top. I shudder to
think of throwing you away or burying you in the cemetery of
old college diaries and love letters. You were my faithful collector of
anxiety and pleasure, cleverness and drought, loneliness and victory;
oftentimes tucked away for months at a time as creative energies were
diverted to other outlets. Like a loyal dog whose master travels away, you
never gave up on me. How many times the tears stained your inky pages
long before I even knew that sparkling water was a thing! When friends
moved away, or betrayed me (how i wished THEY would move away), when loved ones died too young, or old ones lived too long (how they wished THEY could die instead), when my son was slaying dragons and my daughter was breaking up with an inattentive boyfriend; when my wife struggled with her sisters, or when I agonized through physical therapy or cancer surgery, you were patiently there for me. Even as my joints and stitches eventually healed, you continue to be my invaluable companion, both for my history you contain to the left, and for the blank, hope-filled pages to the right. Like me, you are aging, stained, lumpy, scarred, but two-thirds useful as i write under the stain.
///NOTE: the shape above roughly mirrors the unstained portion of my notebook, which I will continue to use in its deformed and lumpy new state!
Also, no poems were harmed in the making of this poem. I write in pencil, so the water didn't render any previous pages unreadable, thankfully!///
I wade into the water that is my aquatic sun,
suited to perform miracles, refusing reprieve until work is done.
I exist as a modern day Hercules, striving to discover my strength,
seeking beneath the surface, striving to greater lengths.
My arms tremor, causing ships to break apart,
during my exhale, all sailors start
to curse…
yet my grunt of thunder remains the worst.
My legs propel me forward, though possessing not one gill,
the underwater highway provides an ongoing thrill.
Mere mortals I glimpse at while stifling tidal waves,
as they struggle against the current, candidates to save.
Their bodies act as limp seaweed, very weak
while others remain bloated buoys, struggling to seek
a sliver of stamina, however slight,
their sun is not yet lit, they remain in a moonless night.
My ears discover the sirens, bursting into song-
they talk of candy sweets my appetite yeans to sail along.
However, my orb of strength is not yet found,
until then, I’m forbidden to go above ground.
Below in the underworld, Hades attempts to send
fingers of flame upon me, yet my armor shall not bend.
My joints ache,
my muscles quake,
yet the ember of faith I shall not forsake.
Eventually, I remain erect, not on bowed knees,
and have resisted pain’s pitiful pleas.
A son of Zeus reaches in to grasp my hand,
his grin stretching wider than the holy land.
His eyes are that of a seaweed sage,
with a chiseled exterior only Aphrodite could have made.
His words light my face with a single shining ray,
“You’ve completed your pool exercises for the day.
Are you ready for the gym?” he asks, hoping I should stay,
and I reply, “I’m in need of hot compresses today.”
I proceed to immerse myself in towels of steam,
while considering my ultimate dream
of strengthening my image, in the future I will see
the bountiful benefits of physical therapy.
A CRACK IN THE SIDEWALK
Poem written for and submitted to “When My Life Changed” Poetry Contest, Kai Micheal Neumann, sponsor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Early morning, sun dripping gold over weathered fences.
I was running, feet rhythmically striking the pavement.
Then a sudden jolt, my foot caught in a yawning crack.
I remember the gasp, the sharp intake of breath.
The sky spun, a dizzying blur of blue.
The asphalt, bitter and gritty, greeted me.
Pain erupted, my sturdy ribs shattering like porcelain dreams.
My taut and athletic back, now a crumpled map of hurt.
My shoulder, a tattered sail, flapping in the wind.
I lay on the ground, a helpless marionette with frayed strings.
&&&&
Underneath fluorescent glow of the emergency room, the bright white sheets
embraced me.
The air was thick with antiseptic, the scent of fear mingling with shock.
I succumbed to the lullaby of anesthesia, the world fading to a distant hum.
I dreamt of running—a memory wrapped in gauze and quiet longing.
The surgeons cut and stitched, the confluence of metal and skill.
After, I lived in a cocoon of pain and immobility, counting the months of
physical therapy.
Months stretched like silent shadows, the world outside a blur .
I, a statue, saw the seasons change—my body and spirit temporarily
tethered to the earth.
I still remember the freedom of running, the wind in my hair, the earth
beneath my feet.
Now I find solace in walking, each stride a careful sigh, a bittersweet
reminder of what I lost.
The world feels foreign, though, my back a crooked spine of broken dreams,
three inches lost to gravity, the weight of time pressing down.
I reflect upon the journey, the scars on my skin, and the lessons learned
in quiet moments.
I am a different sort of strong now, hunched over, but unbroken, moving
forward with faith and grace—one step at a time.
Thunder found me in a waiting room,
the word surgery rumbling through my chest
like a sky deciding to split open.
Lightning flickered in the doctor’s eyes—not danger, but direction~
a sudden brightness showing me the path I didn’t want but needed.
Storms kept arriving after that: a six-month tempest of physical therapy,
each session a thunderclap shaking loose the ache I carried,
each stretch a bolt of lightning showing me strength I didn’t know
was still alive beneath the pain.
There was wonder in the surgery itself—a of skill gathering around me,
the surgeon’s hands bright as lightning, cutting not to harm
but to open a path back into my own body.
There was wonder in the long months after~
physical therapy rose like thunder, steady and rhythmic,
reshaping what pain had claimed.
Every medical hand that guided me became a spark in the dark~
proof that even the fiercest storms carry their own quiet brilliance.
I used to think thunder meant run, meant hide, meant brace for the worst.
But lightning taught me that fear is only the first flash,
and wonder is the echo that follows.