Gossips

“Well, he’s at least 16 years older than her. Please pass the salt.”

“Mother always said, ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.'”

“All I can say is poor Anne. Did you use real mayonnaise or is this salad dressing?”

“Mayonnaise. I don’t quite follow you about Anne. They divorced over two years ago.”

“Yes, but the kids. They still get together with the kids. What happens now? Him running around with a younger woman. Are these the lavender cookies you were talking about?

“Hmmm. I guess but I think they get together at different times. And yes those are the cookies. I picked them up at the bakery this morning.”

“Whatever, they both still live in this town. He and that hussy could walk into a restaurant and Anne could be there. Is there pepper on the table?”

“Well, I suppose but Anne wouldn’t necessarily be alone. Really is she rarely alone?”

“Well, I don’t blame her. Did you see her latest?”

“So tall.”

“Just enough silver along the temples.”

“Oh, we are horrible gossips.”

“Yes, yes, we are. This salad, I think, just needs a touch more pickle.”

“Yet, I don’t know what he is thinking. She is so young.”

“Do you see how she can’t take her eyes off him? She follows him with her eyes whenever he’s in the room.”

“They’ve kissed in public. Kissed, not pecked.”

“O mercy, did mothers hide their children’s faces–pass the ketchup, please.”

“Sure. No, you know how people are nowadays. I guess they’ve set a date, at least they’ll be married.”

“Already? Mercy.”

“Yes, Anne told me herself. Kids are all attending. I think she’s hurt she didn’t get an invitation.”

“Well, I don’t quite understand that. Why would you want to watch your husband marry someone else?”

“EX husband, dear.”

“Whatever. They still knew each other in Biblical proportions. Pass the cake, please. Is there cream for the coffee?”

“Oh dear, we are horrible gossips.”

“Yes, yes, we are.”

The Sands of Hell

What small provision can I make you?

Can I tell you I once believed God a being?

Some vast and eternal lover of men and despiser of women?

I kept the second idea deep within me and watched men from a distance.

I feel no tenderness even when I stumble upon the sign of peace

Within the Mass.

I see only a duty to acknowledge that sweetness exists

But not for this life.

The demons have been cast out of me numerous times, traveling the sands of hell.

When they’ve had enough, they return and give me the same.

The issue with me is want which turns into pain and I’m tired.

Yes, of causing pain no matter how often I try to talk only of the peace of rain

The cold of early spring, the heated colors of autumn, and

The ice formations along Superior’s shore.

Why can’t you love words, argue poetry, start with an event, move to place and

Grasp understanding?  The concept is not mine but that of medieval poetry

And courtly love which hides the attraction to edify the world and respect privacy.

One more time, one last time, come with me to see the ghosts of Huron,

Weep over the wrecks, feel the labor of silent men and women in a world

That doesn’t pretend to know, yet strives to understand.

I don’t know what else to do but gaze at stars, talk to God Who bewilders me

Yet woos me knowing I am still fighting isolation,

That hell will soon pass.

These Servant of God Days: Poetry

Servant of God – Job.

The life of the servant restored –

His curse lifted,

Life after his trials, blessed.

But did he never have a dark moment after?

Did he wake in the middle of the night,

Remembering the silence of his friends

And then their accusations?

Did he feel the heat and ease of his wife’s body

Next to him and then remember her words

“Turn and Die”?

These are my Job days.

Twenty-first century Job days.

The intolerant man at the library.

My frightened son.

A new passion encumbered by suspicion

Neither one of us deserves.

Is the outstretched hand just another prison?

These are my Job days,

My memory lesson days.

God has arrived and the whirlwind has subsided.

The graves have sunk to level ground

The children play not far afield.

I smile, I laugh, I learn and teach,

But wonder did Job ever stop to pause, as I do,

Over bright meadows, golden harvests, and

Soft cold winter nights, colder now somehow.

Did Job long for the soft touch of rest and repose and

Stare into darkness instead?

Did he scrape the scars of the sores God allowed?

Does the servant never cower now?

These are my Job days.

Old enough to let go, endure the ache of regret

But not old enough to forget.

God’s quiet voice echoes in my head.

He always answers with a question.

His favorite, “Were you there?”

For my life, yes, I was there.

And like Job, no human touch,

No smile, no kind expression means sincere connection.

Every man for himself, every fresh looking whore too,

Every child, every demanding parent, every well meaning

Friend sinks to memory, a crashing memory of sickness, disease,

Catastrophe, the blank stare of despondency

During these Job days.

As pencil scrapes paper and cadence settles in

I’m hiding in my car, cold feet, aching hands.

No leaves on the trees a beautiful blue sky

People go by. Did Job have these days?

Did Job remember his own cry for justice?

Did the memory of his own staunch defense

And belief in his innocence weary and slacken his mind?

What does restored mean?

That we’ve learned well to handle the emotions and

Trials of catastrophe, disease, death –

Yet a slighted touch, a cross word, a moment’s silence

Too long between lovers,

Crashes the sky and breaks the heart.

These are the scars that remain

And the servant’s heart has yet to forget.

These are my Job days.

Photo by ginger juel on Unsplash

Performed for The Factory Theatre
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