what to make of it,
for instance,
before a smile –
all this waiting
in a single moment
falling away into
her eyes, and her
hands touching the
counter, lightly
as if playing
for the first time
before she says
can she help me?
by Chris Woodhull
Tag Archives: life
out of nowhere
some days, the words
find me or i
find them and
they may or
may not open
the hatch,
the secret opening,
the place where
God is said
to be.
who made the hatch?
in one side, out the other
and back again.
forgetting the hatch
i am free.
chris woodhull
Apollo
We pull off
to a road shack
in Massachusetts
to watch men walk
on the moon. We did
the same thing
for three two one
blast off, and now
we watch the same men
bounce in and out
of craters. I want
a Coke and a hamburger.
Because the men
are walking on the moon
which is now irrefutably
not green, not cheese,
not a shiny dime floating
in a cold blue,
the way I’d thought,
the road shack people don’t
notice we are a black
family not from there,
the way it mostly goes.
This talking through
static, bounces in space-
boots, tethered
to cords is much
stranger, stranger
even than we are.
by Elizabeth Alexander
for days now
for days now
i awake in
emptiness —
not unlike
fear, a kind of
vacancy
as if
flying
above an ocean
with no map or
navigation, only
fuel enough for
the remainder of
life and
the silent sclaffing
sound of the
propellor
the sea, a flat
horizontal of mottled
filigree, blue in green
spread between
air and floor
why remain in flight?
what is this in me that wants
to wait and see?
chris woodhull
wonder
sometimes in the day,
sometimes at night
I walk outside and in,
all around the wooded property
not looking for anything
in particular, nothing really
but this and that, hoping,
no, not hoping: wondering
if the incessant searching
or hunting or waiting
for something to happen,
to move, from beneath
the thing I call my life,
will give it buoyancy.
chris woodhull
glance
glance:
she looks my way
and i look hers
eyes open
as windows
without a word
we think —
who are you?
windows open
eyes turning elsewhere,
mind moving
into privacy
where we
sit and
think about such
things as meeting
strangers, new
friends we
may enjoy —
i sip coffee, she reads
wondering and wondering,
we both
return home.
chris woodhull
For Love in a Time of Conflict / by John O’Donohue
When the gentleness between you hardens
And you fall out of your belonging with each other,
May the depths you have reached hold you still.
When no true word can be said, or heard,
And you mirror each other in the script of hurt,
When even the silence has become raw and torn,
May you hear again an echo of your first music.
When the weave of affection starts to unravel
And anger begins to sear the ground between you,
Before this weather of grief invites
The black seed of bitterness to find root,
May your souls come to kiss.
Now is the time for one of you to be gracious,
To allow a kindness beyond thought and hurt,
Reach out with sure hands
To take the chalice of your love,
And carry it carefully through this echoless waste
Until this winter pilgrimage leads you
Towards the gateway to spring.
Calling
makieclothier.com
I keep picking up the phone
8-6-5
5-2-4…
It rings, and she picks up.
The muffled sound of struggle, rummaging for a moment (no doubt untangling her curly phone cord from around a plant or other objects in the vicinity.)
Hello? She says hello
I feel her joy
laughing at my jokes.
showing a genuine interest in my life.
loving me.
I tell her stories, she listens and enjoys them whole heartedly.
Then a couple weeks later I accidentally tell her the same story. She doesn’t stop me and say, “You told me that last week, remember?”
No.
She sits and listens again and enjoys again.
Yeah. I love that about her.
Even though she passed, when I call she always answers.
And always will.
-paris
My Love
My grandmother’s death was exactly how she would have wanted it to happen. She didn’t decline over a long period. It was just a couple days. A few minutes before her death we were all surrounding her, holding her hand, touching her arm, brushing her hair out of her face and all of a sudden her eyes opened wide. She seemed to be looking right through all of us. She was seeing something and whatever it was, it was magnificent. Twice this occurred. At the very end she raised her arms as if she was reaching for something beyond our knowing.
Of the many wonderful memories of Cheers, that’s what we called her, Cheers, my best were the ones I spent at her house as a child. Often she would take me down the stairs to her basement that served as her studio. It was always scattered with pages ripped out of magazines, tubes of paint, a multitude of brushes and supplies, and canvases of all shapes and sizes, some displaying finished paintings and some with doodles and ideas. As soon as I stepped over the threshold entering this space I was hit with the smell of acrylic paint. It was home.
She never told me not to touch things like grownups frequently do to small handsie children. I was free to admire, caress and use anything in that sacred space. She ignited my love for art.
Cheers was a strong woman. A real fighter. Meaning she was real, her own self, not a copycat. It makes sense because art is the most challenging lover. Art cannot be created without vulnerability and vulnerability creates real human beings. It is this process of imperfection that creates vividness and life. That is what I learned from her. I don’t want to be perfect, I want to be real.
Cheers was a true artist, with her painting and the life she lead.
I think a life is well lived when it doesn’t stop. Her spirit carries on in many of us, it’s too beautiful and precious not to. And in that way, she lives. There is simply no need too say goodbye.
paris
Monks & Mannequins 