Leave the Cannibals
They don’t make them like they used to.
Envelopes used to be easier to rip open, or steam open. Between paper cuts and interlayered plastic, I do better snipping off the shorter side.
Opening up expected news has become a ritual between us. Too long we witnessed memories without each other; every opportunity of future ones we wait until the other is ready to join in the moment. My husband is finally home, so here it goes.
“Dear Mrs. Wingerd, …” and here Hubby cannot wait any longer and must read it side by side with me. Side by side. As we’ve sowed, so shall we reap. Tears, jittery fists, and jostling don’t make reading the letter easy. We jump up and down like fools together. “BABE!!! YOU DID IT!!!”
Immediate plans set the check into a savings account or possibly a mutual fund, not doing anything with it until we’ve slept at least a day. Or fortnight. But this is what we do. We create this safety buffer by releasing ties to it temporarily, and then begin to dream. Will this fund the next research trip for the sequel? Will it provide money for passports for the kids? All of their homeschool education comes out of pocket so communally celebrating the rewards by furthering their world experience makes the most sense.
We clink glasses of a Sheehan bottle we’ve saved for awhile, totally enraptured in this, our moment. Gratitude, silliness, uncontained joy. Definitely a tithe, we remember now. The writing was meant to help our community, so this is an obvious sign we are in the right place doing the right thing. A tithe will complete that literacy program our church significantly supports. What do we do with the rest of it?
We consider a $200 getaway weekend (we can go at it cheaply in New Mexico) and further steam in the enriching affirmation I find so wonderful. And then it becomes obvious: our down payment. I’m a full-time homemaker who doesn’t monetarily add to “the vault”, as Hubs calls it. So far I’ve only participated by protecting it and allowing copious amounts of overtime. This bump in savings would allow us to leave a dangerous, cannibalistic neighborhood even sooner. Again, no permanent decisions until we’ve slept on it. But this grounding thought returns us from the high of anything-possibilities to our current dream growing bigger by the dollar.
I daydream of the future refuge we seek while window shopping on Sunday drives. It won’t be far now. And what a writer, artist, bookworm, and child’s paradise it is.
Chroniciling
Poets.
Bards.
Shamans.
Mothers.
Godfathers.
Best friend.
Delivery line, comedian.
What is this job?
Why do we care?
Divorce from our multi-layers is not possible without great universal harm.
And in this narrative, we do not condone “doing harm.”
Does this hint at medical professionals linking to poet-like feats?
Perhaps.
But let’s let the listeners decide.
Many might say poets daydream, twisting language into an art. Language arts notwithstanding, the very real exchange between author and medium, and between inner realms of the non-conscious and the finally-understood, is a quantum world hardly contained in ink. We simply construct housing to hoard as many expressions of it as we can.
The bottomless pond.
Can poets still grasp the significance they play?
Will we see one day how poems should archive with their outcomes? Epics, comics, inventions, history texts…
Perhaps this future chronicle style will finally satiate the vacuum where we dump our creative force.
Who knows how poems will evolve after that.
Will-ing
Empathic ability is a gift
I no longer fear having it
I no longer fear losing it
I remain wholly here for awhile longer
for reasons I yet complete
Benefit, reason, is for Him to weave
being, trust, my part discovering
yesterday, not restful
today is better
recalling these truths, already settled
Much to learn, plenty of time
construct to play with
misaligned pain does not define me
we’re a multi-knotted tapestry
warps and frays belong
Ikat, Afghani, nomadic, ancient, present
connect the dots, something twangs true
Kelp, seagrass, fronds, currents wayfinder
present in cellular watery tomes
Indigenous of any color interlaces through
Forgotten legacies
poignant still
lies seem louder
but here my mouthpiece
refuses homage demanded
Another set of eye-clouded orphans
before me awoken, resurrected, disoriented
fabric matrix snapping, straining
although not stranded
my purpose placed here timely
One of many, I trust this now
never again I fear the backslide
toward that hellhole
willingly my hand
reaches back, for them, anyone
paying forward miracles wrought for me
Together, we are woven
Together, we twist and curl
into patterns of foreseen distinctness
reflecting in this era, on the cusp
our language confessing
Of power to heal, to testify
unreliant on approval
offering kind ears and prayers liberally
relentless, set as flint, sparks inevitable
milestones enshrined within gratitude
Nations I’ve birthed, will reign
their rightful curse-breaking stead
red Theatre velvet ropes corralling the lines
awaiting the porters, stepping up, then reassigned
each misstep has value, take note neighbor mine
No one left behind, their choices do not dictate mine
wayward I’m judged by those not the jury
prayed for, my mantle, Hur-im and Aaroni
as escort I witness these Grand Theatre seats filling
willingly, purposely, aha’s settle into savory vibes
~Written by Dominique Wingerd 8.31.2023
quicksand currents
What's really bothering me?
Why can't I shed fast enough. When do happy moments sparkle fulfillment again. Will today's energy sap short on best laid plans or what. You pick.
I live bothered.
Weakly, barely caring enough to bother.
But if any familiar emotions fail to surface or float myself through scenarios once deemed happy or mad, then this prevailing annoyance others call depression is "bothered."
Old beliefs nag away, these mental vagabond runts, when dogged pursuits just fail to raise the bar.
I want more.
I choose more.
I see Community choose other paths incongruent to my efforts.
Another unrealized goal.
Everyone, soooo sloooow to do things together; I can barely see myself as part of the whole.
This bothers me.