Year: 2023

You Don’t Say

vabutsy poems

Epigraph: Children, the psychotherapist taught, play what they can’t say.

We visited Mom Sunday night
I was too lazy to go to Mom’s 
Sunday morning for Mass

Wait, that’s not quite true
I wasn’t lazy

Embracing midnight
Woody and I had made love

We also had intercourse
Which was fun and tender
Exciting and reassuring
As only intercourse in your 70s can be
“Look at me! My body still works!”

So orgasm was very good
But not worth that much 
Compared to making love
Strolling around each other’s bodies
Tasting the dark sweetness of our lips
Whispering those sweet nothings

I smile into my whispers
Knowing Woody
Too deaf to hear words
Hears the soft murmuring
Of my heart’s river
Flowing to him

So I didn’t miss Mass because I was lazy
I missed Mass because I was tired
And because
Woody was too
Delicious
Too divine
To leave for something as trivial as Mass

Risk and Reward

vabutsy poems 
Here
Hundreds of miles from landfall
All that is left is tattered sheep’s clothes
That once hid devouring wolf
But now only flaps
Stirring leaves in fright
Encouraging some to take flight

Morning glories risk
Their morning peak
From behind green vines

Tomatoes large and small
Ripen
Rounding, reddening
In still hot sun

Yellow crookneck squash hugs ground
White clouds crowd sky

Look: bluebird sits on the roof
Of the bird feeder
Chipmunk flings itself
Out of ferns
Across the porch
While no bird drinks
From our small pond
Where on occasion 
We see small snake

The house remains
Quiet, still yet
Not yet ready
To risk the day

We Lose

vabutsy poems 





Here’s what I don’t get:
Adam and Eve lost the Garden
Because they shared a fruit
From the tree of the knowledge
Of good and evil
Right?
I know that’s the way I learned it
More than half century ago
But the words of the story
Are still there to read

Anyway, 
because Adam and Eve lost the Garden
So did all of their descendants
That is, all of us

So here’s what I don’t get:
If Adam and Eve lost the Garden
When they gained the knowledge of good and evil

Why can’t we
Who have lost the knowledge of good and evil
Who believe we can name the unnameable
And teach the unknowable
Why can’t we
At least return to the Garden?


					

		
		
	




			
				


	

		

					
Mystic?

								

								 vabutsy
															ponderings					
												

					


				

			

Keith Kristich of Closer Than Breath asked us to share ideas about what makes a mystic. Here’s my answer:





Mystic is a category, just like male/female or well/ill, day/night. 





But reality doesn’t exist in static categories but in fluid kaleidoscope movement.





Just as I am always all sinner and all saint (Martin Luther), 





so I am always mystic and never mystic.





The mystic waits always, but waits for nothing.





The mystic sees everything but looks at nothing.





I wait, as watchers wait for dawn.





I walk, as sleepers walk through the night.





I sit, I quiet, I read, I listen, I write, I pray.





But none of that makes me a mystic.





I wash the dishes, I watch three bumblebees on the heart of a sunflower, I reheat last night’s leftovers, I send a friend a text, I answer your email.





That’s the closest I can come to mystic.

					

		
		
	




			
				


	

		

					
Now

								

								 vabutsy
															poems					
												

					


				

			

Want the change
Challenges the poet

“Want the change”
Commands the therapist

NO
I screamsnarl
Not now
When I am so content

Yes now
Replies the therapist
You do not aim high enough
You do not strive hard enough
Want more

Yes now
Replies the poet
Do not take the laurel crown
Nor claim the golden throne
Risk the wind


					

		
		
	




			
				


	

		

					
Something Of Value

								

								 vabutsy
															poems					
												

					


				

			

[Inspired by Mary Oliver’s The Buddha’s Last Instruction]





I could paint my life
should I choose
In hues of attempted value
anxious blue hues
Of trying to be a worthy daughter
worried gold hues
Of trying to be a worthy Catholic
psychedelic hues
Of trying to be a worthy protester
tender green hues
Of trying to be a worthy mother
confused gray hues
Of trying to be a worthy wife
blaring red hues
Of trying to be a worthy professional
swallowing black hues
Of trying. Trying. Trying
To be
Divorced
Remarried
Widowed
Alone, alone, alone
again, naturally

The surprising silver hues
Of late true love, forever certainty
That admits no try

(Star Wars pause:
Laughing as I remember Yoda’s injunction:
“Do or do not, there is no try”)

Seventy-five years
to know
  - sometimes -
there exists
    me
    eternal just me
Not ego’s
too persistent 
need to be
Something Of Explicable Value

And then, 
in pure white radiance 
I know myself 
To Be
something of inexplicable value