Note: These are just in the order I wrote them. I’m including all 12 for posterity, but 1, 4, 5, 10, and 12 are my favorites.
#1 10.26.14 Fear of Fragile
All of us are dying,
that’s the crux of life
Life weights you down
like a child on your knee
ticking off the beat of time.
The living are the breathing
and with our breaths
we cry “too few.”
Too few are the breaths and the minutes
and the life that’s spent with you.
For when your breaths are done —
done permanent and final —
we are left with the real
test of grief’s bereft confinement.
Too small will be our breaths
our lungs suddenly too shallow
to take in air to fill our chests
because death hurts our vitals.
Fragile is the life of men
where bones break
and flesh is scraped
and hearts stop
in one quick moment.
I fear the life that breaks us
the news that knocks on doors,
“Ma’am, your son is dead,”
“Sir, the cancer’s spread,” or the
“I just don’t love you anymore.”
I fear the things that shatters worlds
in one swift-kick moment.
It’s hard to live not knowing
how to handle it.
The grief that comes and straps you down
like a straight jacket in an asylum.
It holds you, molds you,
then leaves you stripped and done.
This fragility is an assault on our senses.
To watch the life leave a body
is to see the flower wither in the sun
to see the short transition
from life to death is so heavy
like watching your own eulogy.
Where does the life go? It just fades?
Does it wither or run away?
Does it just cease? How can we know?
How can we ease ourselves
away from this fear of being mortal?
Does it ever hurt less, to have
worlds shatter in an instant?
#2 12.11.14 Dear Death
(Written after reading an update on my old college chaplain’s wife’s cancer. She passed away soon after.)
Death, go away.
You’ve got the wrong doors.
Death, pack your bags.
You take what isn’t yours.
Death, leave us be.
What are you looking for?
Death, you bastard.
You rape us, leave us bleeding.
You take us, no retreating.
You beat us despite our pleading.
What are you looking for?
Death, you merciless villain.
You invade common places like the kitchen.
You flip the switch in the prison.
You take the shooter to classrooms with children.
What are you looking for?
Death, leave us be.
You strip our joy and bend our knee.
You knock us down, make us scream.
You leave a hole where wholeness should be.
What are you looking for?
Death, please, go away.
#3 May 4, 2015 Again Alone Written in flight to start a month of travel for the story project
Another airport
another city
another day of traveling alone.
Wandering, wading deeper into the unknown
where I am unknown, without a home.
My heart is a vagabond, a knapsack
to hold its pain, tied to a stick of hope
slung over my shoulder as I trail along.
I am adrift, tossed in the waves,
propelled by the wind, weathered by
the raging sun. And I am searching
for the shores of a home,
but the best I find are islands.
And it’s just not enough.
So I set sail again,
I wash away again,
and I tell myself maybe this will be the time
I’ll find what I’m searching for.
Maybe this time I’ll run aground.
Maybe this will be the time I am found.
Maybe this time I’ll find myself,
and find myself being known.
Maybe my feet will find fertile ground
and roots will shoot down
from the soles of my feet
planting me firmly in a new
somewhere.
But until then, it’s another airport.
Another road.
Another city where I will get
to hear the stories of the people.
And I’ll move on,
again alone.
#4 JessicaWritten for my sweet, unassuming friend who asked me to make one of my 12 poems about her and who would never normally ask for such a thing, but thought that I would appreciate the bold request. She was right.
She is the silliness of a four year old
housed in an aging soul.
Her beauty is pure, not boastful
her blue eyes shine like gold.
Her heart — oh her heart! —
Her heart is where she lives.
She’s made a home in that
space in her chest.
She invites you to come in.
Her life says, “Come sit,
feel for a while,
Your pain can come in with you.
I’ll yell with your anger
I’ll shout with your joy
your sadness is welcome here, too.
Tell me, is the temperature ok in this room?”
Her friendship is lunar,
always present, even in distance.
Always beautiful, even in darkness.
She participates in life like an event.
Everything is to be remembered,
even this very moment.
Her words are soft,
her squeals are loud.
Her life is loving.
Her parents are proud.
She is a well of life
smiling at the world from behind sweet freckles.
#5 Let me hurt. (written after hearing Abandon Kansas’ Jeremy Spring describe their new album saying “I’m just gonna let it hurt for a while”)
Just let me hurt for a while.
Don’t choke me out
trying to tie a bow around it.
It’s a wound,
not a present.
I’m broken,
not wrapped.
I’m bleeding out and you
used a ribbon as a tourniquet.
Don’t do it.
Please, let me hurt for a while —
it’s all that I have left.
F*cks, hells, and shits
punctuate my language.
Pain leaks
into my sentences.
Because when I’m honest, sometimes
my brokenness still feels fresh.
I didn’t know grief could be
so violent without death.
Don’t demand a positive spin.
A silver lining won’t fix it.
So please, let me hurt for a while —
it’s all that I have left.
I wonder how long it will be
before I can breathe through the memory.
Because right now, to remember
still feels like drowning.
Because right now, in my hometown
I still feel like an enemy.
Someday there will be more, but
for now this is my story.
So just let me hurt for a while — I’m sorry.
It’s all that I have left.
I’ve barely started
to trust again.
But I’m afraid of myself
in the end.
I don’t totally know
how to get around this bend.
I don’t totally know
if I’m good at being a friend.
When I tell the truth,
I’m afraid I will offend.
I want vulnerability.
I want to mend.
But just let me hurt for a while —
it’s all that I have left.
#6 Close
Don’t get too close.
Don’t hold me tight.
My fear will lead me
straight to flight.
I’ll stay right here,
you stay right there,
or you’ll look for me and
I’ll disappear into thin air.
If you approach, do it slow.
Don’t try to take control.
If you do,
I’ll up and go.
But if you find your way,
If you become near, you see,
know that you’re dear to me.
If you ebb and flow
slowly gaining ground
don’t say it too loud.
It scares me when people know
that they are in my heart
it’s a power that could tear me apart.
#7 I Lie To Me
“I can’t do this”
I’ve breathed too many times.
I am quick to admit defeat to me,
But outwardly I claw and gnaw
at the challenge threatening to stop me.
I lie to myself
but it feels like the truth.
My words battle my will —
with each failure admission
I take a breath and try again.
“I can’t do this” is the mantra
on the way to my success.
Somehow my stubborn will
ignores my cries and tries and tries
until it is finished.
I am always surprised at
myself in the end.
Why do I still believe
I cannot do this?
Maybe some day I’ll believe in myself
the way my spirit does again.
#8 As It Happens (written upon moving to Wichita, June, 2015)
By happenstance I met a band,
their name: Abandon Kansas.
Once upon a time
they stopped through where I lived.
By happenstance I saw a band photo,
after many years had passed.
Facebook let us
become friends fast.
By happenstance I went on a road trip
and I stopped where the band lives.
I wandered downtown,
saw where the river splits.
By happenstance I fell in love
with the town on the plains and
I thought — “This feels like
what a hometown is.”
Two years later, on purpose,
I actually live in Kansas.
#9 — Our Father Who Art In Heaven
Our Father
Our. The peoples of the earth,
of all shapes and sizes
Our. The people from the dirt,
our colors pre-decided.
Our. Those around the town
neighbors to one another.
Our. Those spread apart who
don’t care about each other.
Our. The slave and the owner.
Our. The president and the lawn mower.
Our. The world that God so loved.
Who is
Is. Is there in our brokenness and weakness.
Is. Is Immanuel — God with us.
Is. Is familiar with our pain.
Is. Is the love that will not stain.
Is. Is the heart that won’t grow cold.
In heaven
Heaven. Where there’s no more pain.
Heaven. Where the racist is forced to change.
Heaven. Where the lightness reigns.
Heaven. Where death is illegal.
Heaven. Where we’re all equal people.
Heaven. Where brokenness is made whole.
Heaven. Where we are all loved and known.
Heaven. Here now when we bring love home.
#10 Break and Fall (written because it was the last day and I needed more poems)
Day break
When my heart breaks when I wake
I know thats a day break.
The day I break,
A day that acts
Just like you.
And heart break,
What does that mean?
My heart burns
But this isn’t heart burn
It’s heart break,
Like an earth quake,
It makes my chest shake,
But I’m from California,
I’ve done this before.
These walls are too thick
To let your pain score,
They won’t crack,
I’ll just be sore.
I know the drill,
Even if I don’t live there anymore.
Night fall.
When I fall into bed at
The end of the day
I know that I’ve failed again,
Fallen again into that trap
of routine where my days start
with breaking, end with falling
and its just you in between.
Grief, you dirty bastard,
you won’t ruin me.
#11 Just a day
Early morning dew rises and gives way
to the heat of the day.
The grass dries,
my eyelids rise,
my heart is full.
Coffee cup is emptied with the dawn long gone,
the day draws on.
My hunger paces,
my mind races,
my fingers type away.
Afternoon slinks in without warning
of the exit of the morning.
My thoughts slow,
heart rate low,
creativity’s around the corner.
Three o’clock comes and I don’t mind the sitting
now that it’s productivity city.
Here we go.
Here we go.
My brain chants silently.
Happy hour is just an hour
when happiness is a regular prowler.
The dusk dawns,
fireflies turn on,
I walk down by the river.
Evening brings the close of a day
normal in most ways.
I worked away,
played in spades,
and my heart is still full.
#12 “26.” (written on the back porch in the eve of my last day of being 25)
Tomorrow marks the anniversary
of 26 years spent here.
26 years since that August morning
that I came home gift baring,
as my eyes held newborn tears.
A slip and slide was my peace offering
to the boy and the girl — my siblings.
That’s the story I’ve been told.
26 years is long enough to hold enough pain,
and not nearly enough life.
My appetite for life is voracious,
so hand me my fork and my knife.
When I get to the end of it all,
I want to still hunger,
content, but not satisfied.
For as long as I live,
there’s always more that I want out of life.
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Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com