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.

Salt

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.