Rhena Writes

Category: Poem

  • This one.

    Daily writing prompt
    Describe one of your favorite moments.
    View all responses

    Or this one.

    It keeps crossing my mind today to get on the computer to post to this blog and in the same moment, that keeps slipping away towards something more… more what? Just something more.

    Which is good. To be immersed in each moment in this way.

    And just now, I noticed that the late afternoon glow of the nearly solstice sun is so particular. And how this moment of sunlight will not be like this for a whole other year. But even then, the cloud cover will be different and the shade from nearby trees will be more or less depending on what kind of year they’ve had.

    And so I decided that perhaps I needed to write this down as my favorite moment. But by the time I had arrived at my desk, it had all changed. And so this had become my new favorite moment. And even so the sun continues it’s shifting through the sky. It mirrors a longing that I feel and yet cannot explain. A longing for this moment.

  • Rhena, more than this poem.

    Daily writing prompt
    If humans had taglines, what would yours be?
    View all responses

    Rhena, human being being human.

    Rhena, no-one’s burden, no one’s savior.

    Rhena, good to the last drop.

    Rhena, me, myself, and I.

    Just Rhena it.

    Rhena, returning to myself.

    Rhena, creator, survivor, learner, lucid dreamer.

    Rhena, Queen.

    Rhena never goes out of style.

    Rhena, minding my own business.

    Have it the Rhena way.

    Rhena, I am here, like a good Rhena.

    Rhena, being strange.

    The slowest picker upper, Rhena.

    A Rhena is forever.

    Think Rhena.

    Rhena is it.

    The Rhena-est place on Earth.

    Because Rhena is worth it.

    Rhena gives me wings.

    Rhena, I’m doing my very best.

    The ultimate Rhena machine.

    I’m in Rhena’s hands.

    Rhena runs on Rhena.

    The best a Rhena can get.

    Rhena, I can hear me now.

    Rhena, always suffering.

    Rhena, believer.

    Rhena, more than a tag line.

    *********************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Good is God (all the time) and YHWH is breath.

    Daily writing prompt
    What are the most important things needed to live a good life?
    View all responses

    A good life is a series of good moments, one after the other, strung together like pearls on a necklace. What makes a moment “good”?

    Being present to myself is a decent starting place to a good moment.

    Is it only good moments that are worthy of a spot on this necklace of life? Or, when I look back on each moment, will some shimmer more brightly than others? Can I consider the dull and tarnished moments as “good” as the others? Yes, I can.

    Because in all of those moments — even the dull, mistake-riddled ones — I was myself.

    Being present to this moment, to myself in this moment, means not looking back at the previous moments with self judgement — not weighing out and judging one as being “good” and another as being “bad.” Those moments existed. And I existed in those moments. That is enough.

    I this moment, I am sitting at my computer, attempting to answer this question. When my mind wanders off in flights of fancy, I pull it back to my breath.

    My breath is always with me. As long as I’m alive. And so I can always return to it. A good breath is any breath at all because it means that I’m alive. A breath is a moment. And a breath is the sound YHWH, which means that “I am” is on every breath. And that means that God is on every breath. And God and good are really the same words. And all breaths are good and therefore all moments are good moments. And a good life is just a series of good moments strung together like pearls on a necklace. And so it is that this is a good life. And so it is that the breath is the most important thing needed to live a good life. Breathe.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Starve Fear. Feed Joy. (A story/ prose poem sort of a thing.)

    Daily writing prompt
    What fears have you overcome and how?
    View all responses

    Fear is a hungry beast. I find it’s overly easy to feed its gaping maw. What do I mean by that? I mean that the society and culture that I live within is a veritable buffet of delights for fear to endlessly consume. Fear, in its turn, has a bottomless stomach and is always ready to grab a clean plate and begin its trip through the hot bar. And the cold one too.

    I’ll feed it unnecessary purchases of bits and bobs I’ve seen advertised as being able to make me happier, prettier, younger, even wealthier. Fear will consume them all. And I? No happier, no prettier, no younger and perhaps a little bit poorer. And still Fear’s belly rumbles with hunger, demanding ever more time, attention, quick fixes, superficial dalliances into this and that. “You’re missing out,” he whispers into my jewel-laden ear. And I succumb. And still he devours more.

    Fear holds my attention with its adrenaline and thrills, its glitter and shine, its shadows and mirrors. Caught up in the echantment of his own illusions, he pulls back a curtain to reveal his greatest weapon: death.

    But, alas, Fear has overplayed his hand. For Death reminds us, “I’ll meet all of you regardless of how you spend your time. You’d do just as well to invite Fear into your heart as you would with his twin, Joy. It’s all the same to me.”

    And so I pass Joy a clean plate from the buffet of earthly delights: a long stretch, a deep breath, the breeze shifting the juniper branches, a sip of clean water. And together we eat our fill. And then some.

    ********************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • On spoons and hurts; words and truth. (A Prose Poem sort of a thing.)

    Daily writing prompt
    Do you have any collections?
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    I once knew someone who collected small decorative spoons. Apparently this was a thing that people did. Or maybe still do. At least, that’s what I was led to believe when I expressed my confusion when I learned of this spoon collection. Apparently, many places, or at least the places where this person had been, sell these spoons as souvenirs.

    I think perhaps they kept their spoons in a velvet-lined box. I’m actually not sure if they showed me such a box or if I just made that up. My understanding is that the spoons were not used for anything. They were just kept. Maybe this person and his family (I think the spoon collecting was something of a group project for them) pulled them out every so often to clean them and reminisce about where they had acquired each spoon. And maybe that is purpose enough. Maybe some objects spark memories, conversations even connection.

    Anyway I’ve never collected spoons.

    I do have horrible habit of collecting hurts. You know, things that have been said or done to me that have been unfair or mean. I squirrel them away in my heart and then every so often pull them out to shine them and examine them so that I learn their every shape and crag. That way I can place them in juuuust the right spot in this wall that I’m building. At least such a collection has a practical purpose. That wall is high and strong. I am safe inside where I can keep an even more useful collection: bits and pieces of information about myself, moments of solid happiness and contentment, bright and shiny truths.

    I collect words and sentences, compile them into their velvet boxes, maybe give them a good shake. What words and images will I pull out from my collection this time? Will they be true?

    Maybe they will inspire me to tap out a bit of mortar or even a whole rock from the wall of hurts. I’ll slip the words out through the hole. They’ll glisten and shimmer, a sort of flashlight morse code. I-M-H-E-R-E they will spell out. I’m here.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post about daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • WordPress, will you love me if I reveal my five favorite fruits?

    Daily writing prompt
    List your top 5 favorite fruits.
    View all responses

    Will you ship crates overflowing with these delights? Will you sign me up for a monthly club?

    Of course I must begin with the Queen of Fruit: mangosteen. I cannot forget her king, durian.

    Their princess: the jackfruit.

    What is the custard apple’s role in this food court?

    Or what of the “regular” apple? Humble indeed. The one that we say about, “if an apple doesn’t seem appealing, then you’re not that hungry.” Honey crisp. Gala. All the pink-ladies-in-waiting, gauging hunger, keeping doctors away. And what about how it must share its name with that of a ubiquitous multinational corporation. Perpetually being autocapitalized and then accused of stepping above its station.

    Is that five now?

    But what about banana-blueberries-pomelo-avocado- longan- mango-raspberries-kiwi-cherries-pomegranate-grapes-lychee-tomato-persimmon-pear-kumquat-strawberries-canteloupe-pineapple-watermelon-peach-honeydew-rambutan-starfruit-black berries-oh, how can I stop?

    Why such a hierarchy of fruit?

    Do you love me now, WordPress?

    . 

  • I’m the public figure.

    Daily writing prompt
    What public figure do you disagree with the most?
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    The public figure I disagree with the most is myself.

    That is, my outward facing persona is, frankly, phony baloney.

    She’s always trying to guess at what other people — the “public” in other words — thinks and wants and needs. She’s always trying to please them, these other people who are not her. Are not me.

    I, my real self, I disagree with this type of people pleasing behavior. Sometimes, I feel like I’m just along for the ride: cringing every time she says or does something that she thinks will make someone else happy or at least not displeased.

    I’m tired of her ignoring me, the way she goes out into the world making decisions that effect the both of us without consulting me. Sometimes I’ve resorted to berating her. Why did you say that? Don’t you realize how stupid you made us sound? You just shouldn’t be speaking at all! Or wearing that… or thinking that… or doing that weird thing you always do with your hands or face or walking with that strange, strange posture…!

    But all of this disagreement? The end result is that we are both sad.

    We are one, after all.

    So what do I do?

    Begin again.

    Breathe.

    I am human. She is human too.

    “What do you want?” she asks me.

    “I want you to see me,” I tell her. “I want you to do what pleases me.”

    I listen. She listens.

    We agree.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. 

  • Career fast track.

    Daily writing prompt
    What is your career plan?
    View all responses

    I am on the fast track to becoming an elder.

    I’m not entirely sure I had any choice in the matter. Wasn’t this always the plan?

    Mere years away from getting to sit down in a proper chair for family photos, being served first at dinner, being offered a hand up and down.

    Before you know it, I’ll be saying cryptic phrases like, “well, no dog ever howled at the moon without a good enough reason”

    In turn, the youngsters will whisper that I’m wise, senile, annoying, hilarious, cute, or just plain ol’ old.

    I won’t mind.

    The backs of my hands will tell my age: roadwork of veins, puddles of pigment, papery pools. “Ah, yes, this is a liver spot, this is an IV scar, another where I cut myself with a butter knife.”

    I will sing and strum and pluck guitar string and perhaps my eyebrows. And I will hand out clippings from house plants and warm slices of quick breads, fresh out of the oven.

    Is aging a career?

    I will slide gently into myself even as I rise through the ranks.

    Boss of self. VP of me. CEO of this whole damn corpus.

    ************************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Oh, and have a great weekend! God helg! (PS I’m learning some Norske.)

  • The Next 100 Seconds (A prose poem)

    (after Susie Q. Smith)

    Do not brace yourself. In the bracing, there is hesitation, and in the hesitation, there is doubt. There is no room for doubt here. Begin counting as soon as you’ve turned the handle all the way to cold. You will still have one or two seconds of warm water but this isn’t cheating because it’s not; this is your shower. Turn your back to the stream of water. Cross your arms over your chest, if they aren’t already there. First will come the gooseflesh and then the hitch in your breath (or maybe it’s the other way around; the fine details of sequence have little meaning at this point). Your breath will come in sobs. Allow them: these forceful diaphragm kicks. Your lungs are the seat of your grief, which your breath might want to kick around, shake up, expel every so often.

    Remember to keep counting. Begin to move from side to side, allowing the water to cascade over each shoulder. You can think of this as a warm up if that doesn’t somehow seem like a cruel joke. Gradually increase your movements. Soon you will be rotating your whole body under the stream of water. 

    Keep counting. You’ve been here before. Allow the memories of every other time you’ve been a bad-ass rise. That time you birthed a ten and a half pound baby. That time you said, “no” without explanation. That time you did not fill the awkward silence. That time you asked for help after the other time you asked for help and no one offered. That time you birthed a nine and a half pound baby. That time you said, “I don’t like that.” The time you lied and, in lying, remained true to yourself. That time you didn’t feel like smiling and so didn’t. Those times you smiled anyway and extended yourself grace later. That time you showed up to what everyone else knew was a gunfight and you didn’t even have a knife and you stayed anyway. That time you walked away. 

    Keep counting. You’re almost at the end. You can almost hear your Nordic forbear’s proud backslaps. Perhaps they even nod towards their tropical counterparts, who also value cold water, if not the displays of affirmation. No matter. You are whole. 

    Or skip the cold water. Read a poem instead. Read this poem instead. Keep counting. Look back up the page. How far you’ve come. A whole handswidth. Keep counting. Reach 100. Write a poem. 

  • Let it be known (a poem)

                (after Brently Caballero)

    Never, not once ever did I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

    But I always learned your name. Tried at least. 

    Tell my people that my favorite fruit was durian

    unapologetically

    leave it on my altar.

    Tell my people, yes, they will build an altar. 

    “You will dance an altar.

    You will sing an altar.

    Write it. Sculpt it. Grow it. Chisel it. 

    Dream an altar.  

    And to be clear, tell my people the altar will be for me.

    Tell them. Tell them that the picture they place on the altar.

    will highlight my rather nicely shaped head 

    which is a tribute to my nana

    who never set me down alone on my back.

    Tell them not to hide my freckles, the scar on my left cheek

    the one born of vanity 

    (ha! the irony) 

    and the one above my heart

    born of times of trouble we neither

    hide nor talk about. 

    Tell him “she wanted to compliment your glasses but she’d already commented on 

    your hat and how well that shade of orange suited you.” And maybe being less worried about what people thought might have freed her, did free her.  

    Tell them it is only fitting 

    to burn these bones born, 

    as they were, 

    in the year of the fire dragon.

    Tell my people that I was afraid of dying

                until I realized 

    until I saw the truth, stark and bare, 

    of all the people

                I could haunt

                first among them 

    the celebrity so-called chefs

    who hate durian.

    Tell them. Tell them. 

    Tell my people she wrote this poem knowing full well it could be her last

    Tell my people she loathed to be the one to tell you it could also be your last. 

    Tell my people

                her listen long time

                her create long time

                her destroy some time

                her forgive long time

                and her, of course, love you long time.