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Can I Really Say I Hear You?

September 22, 2020 by terrypetersen

acrylic painting I made recently based upon a photo of a birch in Acadia Park in Maine

There’s a lot of difference between listening and hearing. (G. K. Chesterton)

The scene is a circle of young women. In the distant past. I am among the women as I admit I am close to despair.

“Look at the beauty of the trees in the yard,” one member advises. She spreads her arms as if she were Mother Nature enjoying her handiwork.

The scene she describes doesn’t lift me. I feel censured for embracing a less-than-perfect place. And the blue rug where I sit opens. Or at least it seems to open. I fall through. Hidden inside.

Later. Much later. I realize I couldn’t accept the glory because it wasn’t mine. It belonged to someone else. I’d been given a simple answer to a complex situation. An accepting nod would have been better.

Strange. I understand this after my ears needed amplification to catch the most uncomplicated conversation.

It is also strange that I am grateful for the depths because now I can recognize a natural gem and celebrate its worth.

The news advertises fear. With or without facts depending upon the source. A friend calls about her confusion. I don’t have answers. I listen…

 

 

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Fog, Sun, and Hope: A Poem

September 15, 2020 by terrypetersen

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us. And the world will live as one. ( John Lennon)

Fog, Sun, and Hope

 

Bare, black trees stand out inside a low cloud. Fog.

Headlights hide the vehicles they guide

 

until the cars arrive close enough to be

seen by other drivers.

 

In political fogs fact and factoid blur. Alternative facts,

lies that wear well-constructed masks. Fear wins.

 

Each lie repeats often enough to be used as beams for

followers. The mask asks people to scoff non-believers.

 

And the non-believers respond with taunts, point out stupidity,

lack of logic, inconsistency. A no-win war begins.

 

In the natural world, sun, blue, and clouds reappear.

Dead trees remain leafless. Headlights become optional,

 

a choice. Drivers can now see without them. Can eyes open

and human roots join for change? Must fog live in all seasons?

 

Or can sun live despite fog? As headlights point out need,

can drivers carry hope and respond with an ear instead of censure?

 

Yes, I hear where you stand, those who would

destroy the poor and give to the rich, but I disagree.

 

Peace for the world.

 Eventually. Please.

 

originally published in For A Better World

 

 

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A Red Car and Metaphors for Us and Them

September 8, 2020 by terrypetersen

There is no us and them; it’s an illusion. We are all human beings, and we all have a responsibility to support one another and to discover ways of wresting the power from the very, very few people who control all the cash and all the property. (Roger Waters.)

Amazing how lost I can feel even though I know exactly where I’m turning left and right. Three errands. Each simple and specific. And yet my thoughts travel as if my brain synapses have no connections. I want to save the world. It isn’t going to happen.

A red car turns ahead of me into the parking lot as a small boy sticks his head out the window. He is a handsome child. Mocha skin. Hair shaved to reveal a perfectly shaped skull. He returns inside immediately. I imagine the voice of the driver, probably a parent. “Get your seatbelt on right now, young man.”

Then I see the identical shaved hairstyle of a smaller boy. He is seated in the middle of the back seat. The red car is no longer a vehicle in a line of traffic. It is its own world. A mini-community that turns toward another part of the shopping center.

I don’t know the family. And yet a scene hits me. The earth from a distance. Made from easily delineated parts. Water. Land. And everything is blurred as if it had no mountain, valley, creatures, or specks of dust.

When one group of people has never interacted with another, notions develop without dimension, fact, or touch.

“I’m not prejudiced,” an unnamed white woman announces. “I just think all lives matter.” The rebuttal comes, “But is your life being threatened? Has it ever been threatened because your pale-peaches skin has too many freckles?” And the response is a cold stare.

Us and them. May these words become pronouns again and stay out of the judgmental realm. They are too easily used as weapons.

A wider worldview. It may be the only solution. Yet not an easy one.

 

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Facing the Darkness Under the Bed: a Poem

September 1, 2020 by terrypetersen

True forgiveness is when you can say, “Thank you for that experience.” (Oprah Winfrey)

What can’t be accomplished in reality, sometimes can be faced through poetry.

 

Facing the Darkness Under the Bed

 

As I sweep under my bed and touch

the darkness below the frame

I imagine going back into time

 

and watch my mom as her mother lies

on another bed. Twelve-year-old Mary Ann

cooks then washes dishes.

 

Her history textbook is opened

on the kitchen table. Ancient war dates fade,

battles with human losses,

 

each its own variation

of an untold Pyrrhic victory.

She hears a different kind of battle.

 

My mother as a young girl

longs to soothe the endless

cries of her mother

 

in labor for forty-eight hours.

Mama survives but delivers a

second dead baby. Mary Ann learns

 

to bury hurts as well, cover them

inside forgotten dreams. She leaves

the darkness under her bed

 

with the dust. Imagination,

it may be physically impossible.

Yet, I reach for the hand

 

of the twelve-year-old girl who will one day

give birth to me, and allow her

the gift of forbidden tears.

 

Perhaps then I can give

me full permission for

releasing mine.

 

 

 

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Cracks, Imperfections, or the Moments that Take Our Breath Away

August 25, 2020 by terrypetersen

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.  (Maya Angelou)

 For when you experience more crack than sidewalk. And the news inside and outside your house could depress a saint. For the times when you explode over a request that overloads your already sinking-ship schedule. For the moments when the basement floods and you find a dry milk carton in the refrigerator…

 

May joy and laughter return in simple moments. A sunny day when rain was predicted. A call from a friend. A call to a friend. A smile from a stranger. A smile extended to a stranger. The realization that you have value no circumstance can erase.

 

Peace despite and through all the ugliness.

 

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Contrast: a Poem

August 18, 2020 by terrypetersen

It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop. (Confucius)

 

CONTRAST

The news broadcasts the story in an infinite loop.

Nine people killed, one an unborn baby.

Boy or girl, identity as unknown

as the reason for the bullets that stopped them.

I listen to commentary

about hate and racism while a wren

travels from tree to wire, the place where

larger birds claim territory. 

 

Perhaps, there is no genuine connection.

Only a brief metaphor. And yet

I wonder if change can begin

with subtle movements.

 

first published in Piker Press

illustration made from recent colored penciled drawings

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Chrysalis: a Poem

August 12, 2020 by terrypetersen

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up. (Pablo Picasso)

Chrysalis

 

You laugh when I say Daddy and Uncle Steve were my babies. 

Pool water drips from our bathing suits

through the white plastic slats of our beach chair.

The dark puddles mimic gray shapes shifting overhead.

We sit wrapped in the limited safety of a gold beach towel.

I breathe the scent of your chlorinated hair as if it were medicine.

My embrace would save you from more than chill if it could,

make you a princess at the age of three. 

 

But I think of a chrysalis,

spared the struggle of opening its own cocoon yet denied flight.

I kiss you on the top of your dark, wet head

and tell you how wonderful you are.

I pray for your spirit to sing whenever gray clouds

meet inevitable dark patterns below.   

You giggle. Daddy and Uncle Steve. Babies.

It’s okay, Kate. You don’t need to understand.

Your small body curls next to mine.

I am in no hurry for you to grow up.

I have no idea how soon you will learn about loss.

 

That winter your friend slips under an ice-covered lake.

An accident. She’s critical. Her prognosis, unclear.

As the months pass and your birthday arrives

I prepare for your special dinner.

You come into the kitchen as I cook.

I expect you to ask about your presents.

Instead, you mention your friend,

in a coma now, a sliver of the child she once was.

I pray for her every day.

You appear unaware of the power of words larger than you are.

Your fresh four-year-old trust widens a chrysalis opening.

Gray skies shift overhead, bash the ground below,

and leave you twice as beautiful.

    

illustration made from public domain image and cut paper

published in For a Better World and Piker Press

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A Blue Bike: A Poem

August 4, 2020 by terrypetersen

Play is the highest form of research. (Albert Einstein)

A Blue Bike

 

One 1950’s variety blue,

second-hand bicycle, no features

peddle-power only.

Balance, I’d mastered it.

 

A classmate begged to ride.

She sped down the hill,

made a squealing brake,

and met the concrete with her nose.

 

“It’s the bike’s fault,” she claimed.

Tears fell into the blood on her face

while she stared me down.

My parents said nothing.

 

Alone, I stepped into new shades of balance.

My peer seemed to choose a

shift-the-blame ploy. As a reticent child,

inaction was my norm. I hadn’t yet learned

 

when to be silent, when to speak.

I was mute out of fear. Balance

and courage took me years to develop.

To move from a fragile ego into integrity.

 

A new goal reaches into my horizon, to focus

less on blame than on the pain. How can I help you?

To be aware of both ploy and hurt. Neither

accepting nor giving censure. Not easy.

 

Balance includes more than gravity. To

maintain real-life love without being a jerk,

without giving more than I have.

One 2020 old lady moving forward, into peace.

 

published in For A Better World 2020

pic made from public domain image

 

 

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Cut: a Poem

July 28, 2020 by terrypetersen

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. (E.E. Cummings)

 

On a 1950’s Thursday afternoon

a little girl stands

on her imaginary stage.

A flat maroon, living room carpet.

 

Her pleasant scene grows as

a popular song drifts into her play space

from the kitchen radio where Mommy

boils potatoes for dinner

 

and complains about how quickly

three kids get a life dirty.

The girl listens to the music and

mimics the trills, crescendos,

 

and joy in the melody.

The child’s gentle vibrato promises a

clear soprano voice one day.

She would have added gestures

 

for her make-believe audience

but Mommy appears at the doorway

wielding her wooden spoon.

So-who-do-you-think-you-are?

 

Mommy turns away without striking.

Yet, the girl recognizes the warning

and retreats into the dark, silent spaces

between the lace curtains and window.

 

The song will not disappear.

She hears it inside her head

and saves the sound

for a safer moment

 

when she will lead her future

children to follow dreams,

discover subtleties,

laugh, cry, and simply be.           

 

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A Family Secret: She is More Than Her Birth Story

July 19, 2020 by terrypetersen

We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light. (Plato)

Sun slips through the trees on an ordinary Friday evening. It brings a light too intense for human eyes. In the shadows, while six friends meet, stories appear.

I listen to the story of a friend’s mother. Her early life. Her name was changed after she found a foster home. Her history remained hidden. She was told that she came from Italian ancestry. However, her parents had been Syrian. My friend’s mother was a paradoxical gift. After a rape. A beautiful child came to the world after a moment of horror, pain, and crime. In this Syrian country, the rapist was murdered. His murderer acquitted. As if the killing had been a service.

Shame is powerful. The event was hidden from everyone’s knowledge. A scar remained long after the child’s umbilical cord was severed. Long after fostered transitioned into adopted. Long after the girl became a mother with grown children.

I hear this long-ago child’s daughter speaks. I know her mom’s legacy. The gifts she passed on as my friend stands in front of the light passing through the trees. She, too, is light. One of the kindest, gentlest people I know.

The beauty of my friend’s tale comes like this sunset in the woods. Darkness meets with light. Pain and healing join one another. Both real. The light, stronger.

My friend’s mother died years ago. Yet, I allow my thoughts to waft into the evening breeze. Thanks, I tell her mom. Thanks for the continuing gifts that came from your life.

 

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