Health

I Want To Be A Pharmacy

Posted on by stephen t berg / 15 Comments
Photo: mikesavad.com

 

I want to be a pharmacy

that’s open all day and all night
and makes deliveries for free.

My clerks would be rainbow-bloused angels,
fluent in the lingual acts and active arts of kindness.

I’d carry the widest array of solutions
for every possible disaster
(so not a small store,
but neither a colossal corp-of-a-store).

All my tonics would be non-toxic,
rigorously tested by the non-quixotic.

I’d carry a purity for every infirmity,
an anti for every inflammatory.

In my apothecary
there’ll be gel-caps of stout stem cells,
that race —
sirens and lights — to the site of every injury;

followed by time capsules, which, taken as directed,
will preclude all subsequent accidents.

Of course I’ll stock stardust
from all the best constellations.
Of course all chocolates, even Cake Pops,
will brim with antioxidants.

Among my sundries:
oil of gladness, edible sunrises, musicians-in-bottles,
wind treasures, potable shade.
My sunglasses will put you in touch with yourself.
Take a look, the mirror is filter-free yet merciful.

In the back will be a studio with play-based paints,
a heliodome for your pets,
a round lounge with full-range-woofers of silence,
(to drain the noise from your bones),
opening into a space with rejoicing trees,
real crickets, song sparrows and curative waters
running over obsidian, pooling
beside a steam room of sacred cedar.

For you, at the checkout, on the eye-level shelf,
you’ll find a complimentary neck-brace
of such ergonomic elegance,
you’d swear
the world
was a thousand-armed embrace of everlasting tenderness.

Happy Birthday

What I’d give my wife for her 59th birthday

Posted on by stephen t berg / 17 Comments

Ideally, I’d give you a kitten of your own,
but before that, a magical pill to kill your allergy.

I’d give you the shell of a pine shed, with loft and veranda,
all the latest tools, in a setting (no doubt with a creek)
of your choosing.

I’d fly in all our kids and their partners, the entire
global-blended-brood of them, to toast the arch
of your open-ended evolution, your mentorship,
especially salute your motherhood.

I’d bake you fresh bread, churn butter for you,
add a touch of garlic. (Not to worry, I found the perfect
naturopath to give you tolerance for gluten and allicin.)

I would interview a dozen gardeners and select one
that would never forget to tend all those seedlings
you start each year, with such care.

I’d arrange the best hike — perfect weather for your hands and feet,
handsome guides that played the flute like Moe Koffman, and
carried the stemware, red wine and a plate of brownies.
(I should have told you: I gave you a taste and the capacity for wine.)

For excitement, yet comfort, for our tired and fragile bones,
I’d rent an inflatable castle, we’d bounce-dance
from twilight to midnight.

I’d throw you a weekend conference.
It’d be exhausting, too many sevens, but it’s your party.
(Naturally, before that, I’d have wiped out Covid.)
George Gurdjieff would be Friday’s speaker,
breakout sessions with Agatha Christi and Margaret Wheatley,
for variety, Stan and Jan Berenstain.
You’ll be relieved — no poets.

Of course there’d be a display in the foyer
full of accolades from kids you’ve taught
in your own Learning Out Of Curiosity school,
mom’s you’ve cared for, (lived with us)
colleagues you’ve worked with and Enneagram alumni.

However, I’d reserve the right to be your keynote,
say things like:

Remember when we wished each other, other than we were?
tried to live our neighbour’s measures,
our religion’s gendered standards?
We were green,
by luck and work, we grew out of that foolosophy.

We’ve had hellish days, like everyone,
but far more were days when everything was in blossom!

We’ve gotten good at taking turns
keeping each other together.
(Thank you, that was your lead.)

Funny, we’ve been given this dust for a short while,
but it’s made possible,
this load of love.

Then I’d end by saying, simply, I like
how I’m known, these days, not by name,
but as Deb’s husband.                         (Happy Birthday Deb!)

Humans/Life

All-night Laundromat

Posted on by stephen t berg / 10 Comments
Photo courtesy roadarch.com

I worked the afternoon shift at the lumber mill
which meant doing my laundry at midnight,

a chore I grew fond of,
like being handcuffed by flowers —

fond of,
like the waitress I recognized from Barney’s,
who seemed to like me,
and laughed at herself for failing to add the Tide,

or the homeless guy that came in and told us
about the passageway, “under this very floor,”
leading to the Pentagon,

or the two women in muscle shirts
who quarreled over one particular washer,
when four others were available,

or the mill worker who smoked a bowl
standing under the neon sign,
then happily stared at his tumbling coveralls,
for the entire 30 minutes,

or the man who occasionally stepped in
to scream at us for getting abortions,

or the girl who stripped down to her bra,
and added to the wash, her dog’s red bandana,

or the couple who came in from the rain,
sat under the folding table
and fell asleep in each other’s arms,

or like all of us, creatures of midnight,
hard to believe 
we are all, “walking balls of light,”
but that’s exactly what the homeless guy told us.

Theopoetics

For Embarking Upon Another Year – A Psalm Resembling the Movement of Sparrows

Posted on by stephen t berg / 16 Comments
Note: italicized here are clippings from Psalms 39 & 40.

For Embarking Upon Another Year – A Psalm Resembling the Movement of Sparrows

You put a new song in my mouth
and now I can sing through dark winters
like a choir of sparrows.
Not those chipping sparrows,
who sound like a referee’s whistle,
but those Golden-crowned ones,
Lord, I could listen to them all day.

And when you brought me up out of the miry clay,
I swear, free of all that muck,
I flew through the window 
to perch beside one of those birds,
with a big smile on my beak.

It is written of me, in one of your volumes,
that I delight to do your will,
and it’s true — now that I’ve met your mom side,
your sorrow side, your broken-and-betrayed side,
your womb side, your (many breasted) El Shaddai side —
I’m bound to you
like a definition.

But that time I asked you to make known
the measure of my days, and you said,
grass, handbreadth, consumed by moths,
that was hard to hear and I was sad for a long time,
even though I’ve heard 
that the skull has a permanent smile.

When I was in that horrible pit
and you lifted me out and set my feet on solid rock
I was so full of joy I wanted to make a bonfire
and burn something for you,
and you said, Don’t be an idiot,
just watch your step and keep your ears open.

Then, when I started counting my iniquities,
and saw they were more numerable
than the hairs on my head
and I asked you to shave me bald,
I didn’t hear back from you.
Even when, speaking good King James, I begged,
Oh Lord, make no tarrying!

And that’s how it goes between you and me.
I mean, just when I think we’re getting on,
you slip out, only to come back to catch me in a bribe,
which, I’ll admit, makes up like 90 percent of my praise.

But then, contrary to all that Hillsong (don’t get me wrong,
some of that can be arm-liftingly beautiful),
praise is not the thing you crave.
I should have known. It only took Monty Python
two skits and a movie to send up
centuries of systematic gotcha-doctrine.

Anyway, it’s not fallen to me to preach in the great congregation
but I have this blue-collar poetry habit on offer,
which has been rag-dolling me around for years.
I won’t elevate it and say it’s my thorn, but there it is,
and for what it’s worth, I’m fine for another
whirl ‘round the solstice wheel.

But before I sign Amen, I want you to know,
whether I’m sparrowing in the predawn
or baying about my lost bonhomie,
I’m not bored.