Category: DayPoems

Within one singular breath
is the distance between life and death,
for ones not yet born and those who have been here,
young, old, straight, queer—

Man, woman, and those singularly defined,
we cross the paths to the future primed
without a road map, without explanation,
we exist, moving from station to station

sometimes armed with knowledge, sometimes learning nothing—
Life is sparked, lit and burning true, then snuffed out, a done thing.
Did we wonder what we would have done if we knew,
if this were the last time? Suspicions grew

fast, and blame and grief, and guilt too, they last; the memories overpower
all the consolations of well-wishers, the inner never-ceasing shower
from utter loss, feeling like rubbish, without hope or certainty.
What is life now without my loved one beside me?

Our baby had checked out early; what can we do now?
The snow falls fast upon the farmer’s plow,
even after tragedy, we keep on moving; one must not wait,
so others can be fed, and to not suffer the same fate.

For all are invited to Death’s door,
let’s pray it’s not our time to go yet, remain here a little more.

Yes, each one of us has a soul,
the ones who see colors when music is playing,
the ones who smell nonexistent burnt toast during a grand mal seizure,
the ones who hear voices every time they walk around

The brain is a curious thing.
It will rewire its pathways after a sudden injury,
and can detect things out of sync, yet being in sync while in the same instant.

The weirdoes, the beautiful ones and the strong shall survive the longest.
Especially those raising young children, like my younger brother
who grew up wanting a brother; now he’s raising two of them.

I wonder how his brain is wired?
Dr. Penfield, one of the greatest Canadians and neurosurgeons,
recognized its fragility, weirdness, beauty and strength.

Not everyone could snap their fingers.
I can’t but he could; he can’t sing but I could.
He can’t see the color green, or can’t lie to save his own life.
I miss my brother plenty. I hope he’s fine today.

Every thought that grows in my mouth
I send to you
every tender and tangled happy noose filled with poppies
I send to you
every signal I’ve received from the grand universe
I send to you
every flugelhorn symphony I’ve dreamed up
I send to you
every same damn old thing thousands have made already instead
I send to you
every sore, magnified; psoriasis, not hidden from view
I send to you
every bloom born on the dark side of the moon
I send to you
every kind word uttered this year, folded into an envelope
I send to you
every note filled with marvelous love
I send to you
every thoughtless burning of wounded spirits
I send to you
every siren calling me home, safe from dangerous waves
I send to you
every time I try to change my own mind for the better
I send to you

Are you receiving it
are you receiving it
are you receiving it
every time
I send to you?

I shouldn’t care at all
I shouldn’t care at all
I shouldn’t care at all
but I do

All these somebodies love you 1/16/18 by Carrie Magness Radna
January 16, 2018 ~ Leave a comment ~ Edit
All these somebodies love you, sweet Darling,
so why, even after all of these years,
don’t you try to love yourself?

Yes, dear one, you’re your own worst enemy.
When did your own inner rebukes first germinate,
by another’s casual but unkind observation of your actions,
or did you mix up the poison all by yourself?

What was the first doubt, the first self-deprecation?
You don’t ever remember, don’t you?

Don’t you notice the ones watching you close-by,
they would run to catch you if you fall, when you do fall,
but you froze up, so you couldn’t fall, or feel
as the smile you painted on still remains on your face.

Why can’t you trust us, dear one?
We can listen and help you out —
Even the strongest trees bend in storms,
and they seem dead during Winter, even when they’re not.

You are not dead yet.
You are valued and lovely, and we want you alive.
The blooms are coming soon, and so will you, eventually.

All these somebodies love you, sweet Darling,

so why, even after all of these years,

don’t you try to love yourself?

Yes, dear one, you’re your own worst enemy.

When did your own inner rebukes first germinate,

by another’s casual but unkind observation of your actions,

or did you mix up the poison all by yourself?

What was the first doubt, the first self-deprecation?

You don’t ever remember, don’t you?

Don’t you notice the ones watching you close-by,

they would run to catch you if you fall, when you do fall,

but you froze up, so you couldn’t fall, or feel

as the smile you painted on still remains on your face.

Why can’t you trust us, dear one?

We can listen and help you out —

Even the strongest trees bend in storms,

and they seem dead during Winter, even when they’re not.

You are not dead yet.

You are valued and lovely, and we want you alive.

The blooms are coming soon, and so will you, eventually.

Saturday’s snowy swirls were of little consequence.
Streets refused to get wet, last week’s rock salt
now pulverized into fine powder, covering each trotted inch
the tourists had creeped upon the city in the New Year—

The last confetti and balloon pieces were swept away overnight,
the salty streets remained cold, with invisible ice
only the natives could take heed of.

The air smells like salt.
It chills the lungs instantly as we tread on,
never pausing, never daring to remain glued in one spot
lest we become pillars;
we should never look back, keep on soldiering ahead.

I.

Scandinavians are not the only worshippers of Yule.

Tonight will be glorious, even in Sweden, where darkness

is constantly constant like the heaviest of black, wool veils,

where ceremonial candles are finally lit with happy chanting.

Evergreens are brought inside to protect the home with ancient magic,

from the cold, brutal winter until Spring.

The Yule log is burned in the fireplace, in remembrance of Celtic sacrifices,

for another kind of protective magic.

Now Europeans drink wassail and stare at the fire,

silently making wishes for the upcoming year as they play cards,

waiting for all the candles to burn out.

Yesterday I picked up two forgotten, cut Christmas tree branches from the street.

I took them in, and smelled the evergreens deeply before mounting them

upon a framed portrait by my front door.

I hope the Yule/Evergreen magic would protect us now.

III.

Anxiety is the demon of the season, and it has struck me down hard,

unrelenting, without gentleness or joy.

My chest feels as it’s been jumped upon by a tiny, invisible baby kangaroo,

(between embryotic and grown kid stages),

my head is filled with swirling dust.

My place has been crying out for attention, it’s been weighed down and ill.

I’ve been ill, slowly covered in dust,

my love’s bubble of denial has finally burst,

he sees the crap carnage, and has sprung to action.

IV.

The face of the red Persian rug in my foyer is finally uncovered,

we haven’t seen it in an entire year.

Wendy the home organizer is coming this weekend

to help send and store the junk and unneeded items away,

the 3-day weekend contains Christmas, so we can

clean and sort on the free day, the holiest day of the year.

In the darkest and longest of nights, it is holy;

the light will break through as the junk

of the last year is cleared away—

I want to be a bear,

to growl a lot and wear

some fur, and fuzzy socks

with foxes’ heads on them,

and I want to curl in bed,

sleeping deeply until Spring.

Long nights are a-coming to get me,

the long dress rehearsals for

Friday’s merriments, the after-dinner mints

are out-of-bounds for the singer’s throat now,

just hot tea, honey and the occasional

self-slap across the face to stay awake.

The deep sleep won’t wait for me

after the big concert; the big dance troupe

awaits for its post-worthy pictures

I must take on Saturday night.

And Hanukkah! Sweet Hanukkah,

ah, those crazy 8 nights…

On Sunday I should join in the fun

at the in-laws; no, I haven’t forgotten them.

Words come out in spurts,

as I try to capture and hold them still

for long enough, so I can do my work,

my head still spins, and the blues

play loudly in my head,

coloring my mood to rare indigo,

during these times of sheer madness

when peace and love should be

the only things of importance.

It may not be just theoretical,

heavy dark matter-crushing particles, that leave

behind no footprint or radiation, once disguised

as ancient stars that died out long ago,

now they can take down future starships.

People can carry the dark matter

in the psyches for years, the sickness

clouds the bloodstream, becomes the

welcoming ghost in their bed,

crushing them, while still alive,

as they wait for new stars to germinate,

to warm their bones once again.

To fight the matter, one must

smile in one’s liver, then in every cell

until the darkness stops.

Entering back into the womb,

it’s what being on opioids is like:

a curling inward in a warm, safe place,

your mind checking out temporarily

as the Universe forgets your existence;

the original pain is numbed, defanged,

de-categorized into a nice rumbling under the skin,

attention-span is wearing thin as the pain

still hangs out in the background, smoking,

causing you to piss and puke acid at odd moments.

I see why the cult of dependency is what it is.

People don’t like or even want to deal with the pain

in real-time; life should be hazy & lazy

because real life sucks ass. Many cousins of mine

are lifetime believers & followers of the cult of opioids.

They are damaged, distraught individuals.

I was taught not to do this. Only Tylenol for pains,

nothing more. Even on Tylenol, I have trouble

reclaiming my words, they drift in & out of the tunnel

too fast, as I remain still, my lower back still strained,

the pain sucking ass.

Always fashionable, slightly in decline,

a mix of industrial and romantic lines,

at Duarte Square (under construction),

I wanted to kiss you, but I couldn’t.

I tried to picture my man there,

stopping off at an Italian cafe

drinking aperol spritzes

as we watch the couples walk their chocolate-colored dogs

But the pictures of him didn’t stay;

I couldn’t see him here.

I need someone here, to make out

with, to hold close, to show any known affection—

I am lonely as an island in this city,

savoring a touch, a look, a want,

I want love to be simple,

especially here.