Health/Love

Banner of Pain

Posted on by stephen t berg / 10 Comments

Banner of pain
For T.B., and for anyone who knows someone suffering with Trigeminal Neuralgia; and for those who suffer.

I will just come out and say that my rage on behalf of your pain,
when spent,
mocks the hell out of me.
  
I thought that if I had the grit to kneel through knife-edge nights,
fanning coals of invocation,
blazing with the pleas of Jacob, 
wrestling with any angel,
gripping God’s great leg,
you would wake up laughing
the way you did in your child’s body.

It was tempting to think a father’s anguish could reach that high,
had the weight to strike some rock
and steer the gush of healing waters.

What gain then to throw this ache at the sky?
but to rise in the shaky light of morning,
go with hands unfolded
to hold you and tell you to count on me
to rescue you from every lonely highway,
wait with you through any lengthening shadow,
carve a new walking stick every time you lose one
and help carry your silent banner of pain.

Freedom/Health

Healing your Heart

Posted on by stephen t berg / 13 Comments

You who would heal your heart:
learn to look at all things, including yourself,
in context and in contrast
as though standing on a hill watching the hues and suffusion of a sunrise.

You who would heal your heart:
practice holding everything gently together, along with yourself,
knowing that it cannot be your task or duty to heal another’s heart.

Your understanding of these things may be as clouded glass,
but this will not impede your hope or compassion
or your willingness to serve.

You’ll know you’re on your way
when you hear the wren say hello
and when the courageous arbutus acknowledges your presence;
and when the turkey vultures sitting on page wire fences by industrial bays
make a joke about your hat
and you laugh;
and when you walk alone on a wild shore and through your feet
feel the earth breathe,
you’ll know you’re well on your way.

And those that berate and belittle and betray will no longer occupy your heart
for it will have been filled with finer things
without you noticing.

Love/Mercy/Poetics

Memories that arise when you’re healthy

Posted on by stephen t berg / 6 Comments

When I find joy in watching someone else’s delight
I know I’m healthy,
and I rock holy,
and go walking about like a beatnik
wearing a smile that surly looks silly
and catch myself caroling with The Milk Carton Kids
covering Pink Floyd’s, Wish you were here.

When I’m healthy
and come across an old photo of myself,
I think,
that’s almost beautiful,
and I remember that I used to have a horse named Chummy
that I’d ride bareback down to the creek
and we’d just stand there watching the water
trickle over a beaver dam.
And I can’t even tell you why this seems so important.
I’ll only say that lost memories like these arise when I’m healthy.

And when I see a kindness I write it down
so I can publish it.
Because you said once that kindness needs our help.

And when I find love I pass it around,
because of all the times its been passed to me.

And when I hear the word mercy
I remember that you seldom speak it out loud,
only voice it by using your hands.
And I grow thankful
for the way you pull up all the weeds of cynicism around that word.

And when I come across a photo of you
I say, O now that’s beautiful!
and I see how your eyes have the capacity of sky,
how they hold such sorrow and such joy.

And I remember, years ago now, walking the shoreline
and you noted in passing
how a wave crashing on rocks bursts out clear light.

Family/Friendship/Life/Love

How a miss is a kind of hit

Posted on by stephen t berg / 16 Comments

Last night walking home from a poetry reading I was inches away from being struck in a crosswalk by a vehicle running a red light at speed. I felt the quick push and suck of air. At the same moment two girls a few steps behind me screamed and the SUV disappeared down Belleville Street. There are a number of things that happen, and a number of thoughts that pass in the minutes and hours after a such a miss. Like how a miss is a kind of hit. Like how much your partner, your kids, your family, your friends mean; and how this heightened sublimity should be natural and constant. How crystalline and shimmering the lights along the inner harbour look, despite the drizzle; how the long lines of lights framing the parliament buildings all went nova. Like being happy you read the poem you did (Poem broken open), appropriate as any, should it have been your last. Like how many poems you’ve left unfinished, how many hours you’ve wasted, how much more music there is out there, how much more beauty there is to see, lungfuls of thick air to breathe. Then, how guilt flirts with gratitude: in the rush of thankfulness you recall that not long ago across the city an eleven-year-old girl was struck in a crosswalk and will never truly recover. And then, how anger arrives late and you fling a chain of curses at the truant driver. How in the revelation of another chance, in the resolve to make all things matter, you go home and fall asleep watching some Netflix show. How at 3 AM you’re wide awake and take to reading the late Franz Wright’s book: God’s Silence. How early this morning for no reason, or for some reason, your second oldest son who only sends a message in response to one, takes the initiative: “Hey dad, just thinking of you. Hope you’re fabulous. I love you.”