Palm Sunday Tango

“Those who were seen dancing
Were thought to be insane by those
Who could not hear the music.” Nietsche

Palm Sunday Tango

Our cocked ears strain toward a not-so-distant future
To catch the first notes of an untamed Lindy Hop.

But now we dance a mournful marathon not of our making,
Dragging our weary bodies and souls behind us, waiting to hear
The last dreadful note.

We will dance with abandon
When the Lindy notes sound at last,
But in this time between we endure,
Faithful to the dance we hear now.

We learn the steps as we go,
Leaning against one another,
Hanging on, cheering on, crying with.
Tomorrow’s dance is for tomorrow.
Today we dance to the music we hear today-
Holy insanity.

c. Rita H Kowats 3/27/2021

*I am deeply moved by this post https://www.ritualwell.org/ritual/mourning-dancing

Endurance

Soon we live again exuberant and relieved;
But now we do a strange Lindy Hop
In a marathon not of our making,
We drag our weary bodies and souls behind us
Waiting for the Big Band to play the last note,
Releasing us from our dis-ease.
We yearn to dance again with abandon;
But in the time between we endure,
Faithful to this dance here and now.
Learning the steps as we go
Leaning against one another,
Cheering on, crying with.
Tomorrow’s dance is for tomorrow.
Dance today.

c. Rita H Kowats 3/20/2021

The Caboose

“… the lead bird isn’t an alpha bird, he explained, it’s just the one that assumes temporary wind duty, and when it gets tired, it flies to the back of the pack, where it may straggle while regaining strength. “If you’re the guy in front, you can only stay there so long,” he said. “Recovery may take awhile.” In the meantime, a new bird moves in.

“The Goose that flies at the back of the pack is just getting some rest”  by Mary Schmich

https://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-xpm-2012-11-09-ct-met-schmich-1109-20121109-story.html

 

The Caboose

(On seeing geese fly in “V” formation)

Ahh. It’s my turn.
Not that I regret flying in the front;
I’m tired.
There’s less to do now
More to be.
There’s less to say now
More to hear.

I relish the sacred energy of the “V”
That carries me now,
“wind duty” done.
Such is life and death
And life again.

c. Rita H Kowats 3/14/2021

Loving Kindness for February 8

“He was pinned to himself to die,
a royal tern with a black crest blown back
as if he flew in his own private wind.”

Gracious Goodness
by Marge Piercy

On the beach where we had been idly
telling the shell coins
cat’s paw, cross-barred Venus, china cockle,
we both saw at once the sea bird fall to the sand
and flap grotesquely.
He had taken a great barbed hook
out through the cheek and fixed
in the big wing.
He was pinned to himself to die,
a royal tern with a black crest blown back
as if he flew in his own private wind.
He felt good in my hands, not fragile
but muscular and glossy and strong,
the beak that could have split my hand
opening only to cry
as we yanked on the barbs.
We borrowed a clippers, cut and drew out the hook.
Then the royal tern took off, wavering,
lurched twice,
then acrobat returned to his element, dipped,
zoomed, and sailed out to dive for a fish.
Virtue:  what a sunrise in the belly.
Why is there nothing
I have ever done with anybody
that seems to me so obviously right?

___________________________________________________

I offer this poem once again because it speaks to the place many of us find ourselves in today, “pinned to ourselves to die,” and waiting for some one, some event, to unpin us. I have added new lines to my meta prayer:

May we be content with our own best selves.

May we be open to receive the help that we need.

May we recover those who are pinned.

May it be so.

“Why is there nothing
I have ever done with anybody
that seems to me so obviously right?”

Photo Credit: Media Tweets by Teresa Fernandez (@TeresaF35309694) on Twitter

Respite

My candle batteries are still lasting. They’ve brought me light since Wednesday, but this morning I need more. So I curled up in the embrace of the two gigantic angels who always stand at my back, have my back. More than one person who has eyes to see such beings has pointed them out to me. At first I kept asking them for their names but they never told me, so I called them “Frick and Frack.” It stuck. So this poem is for them.

Respite

Standing at our backs,
Your expansive wings enfold
These unfledged humans
Who recoil from the miasma of hate
That now pollutes each breath we take
In this land of the once free.

Recoil or cower,
Which is it?

We shelter within stalwart wings waiting
For healing and spirit-washed air
To fill our lungs.

Then
We repair the breach.

c. Rita H Kowats 1-9-21

Photo Credit: https://www.jing.fm/idown/iimxihw_clipart-chromatic-angel-wings-within-angel-wings-clipart/

Find Life. Celebrate it.

Crow Wisdom

Crow Wisdom
(An Irreverent Rumi-like Ramble)

The incontinent crow
Flying over my window
Bids adieu and screw you
To this year without cheer.
Crow wisdom:
Let go,
Let hope in,
Live.

2020/29/12
rita h kowats