From Surviving to Thriving
Joey
He is effortlessly himself
Light blue eyes
And a messy ginger beard
His chest hair creeps
Above his white tee shirt
And I am left dizzy
With the caress of my waist
We kiss among August fireflies
We laugh so hard over coffee
And when I’m in his arms
He smells like bonfires and sawdust
Like forests and home.
Artistic perfectionism
Let me start an art of presence: What’s right in front of me?
Grassy soaked puddles reflect bare trees, interrupted as I slosh through in my black rain boots. Brown dead leaves on the ground, coyote tracks in the snow, and two deer in the distance I almost missed with my head down
writing this.
there is a path, a longer way, and I take it, to think more on the futility of art to make you feel better. It is an addiction that doesn’t feed unless it is the art of enjoying the show, joining in, documenting the present. The art of enhancement, at least for me.
So much time and effort to escape the moments of my life.
The grey still pond. The patchy snow. The red Chevy pick-up juxtaposed with the dull-hued grasses. The old farm machinery on the horizon.
Let me use my genuine voice. Let me see things as they are. Let me enjoy myself, creating.
A grey ambiance
Blurry winter sun
Lavender and yellow sky
A grey ambiance
Light orange mushroom
On a log that is the den
For creatures unknown
A peeling birch tree
One gunshot far away
The crunching of leaves
Black cherry towers
So heavy, tall, and dark
The creaking of pines
November Morning
Bluejay lands on branch
Chickadees eat the ragweed
Sky is a pale grey
Pinetrees reach toward the sun
Needles cover the earth below
Dark green boughs; still, cold air
At home with the land
A red tail hawk flies overhead
I sing to myself.
Chickens
I.
I sit at the fire and see the hills of my home. Or rather, not my home, for they belong only to our eyes (as much as anything can belong to anyone). But I’m beside the point which is about when I look at those hills. I think about the haphazard crossings of other lives with mine. I think about the reflection of the trees on the pond. There’s a row of pines and red berries on branches. This is my home. I think that I’ll look at these same hills when I’m dying. But mostly, I think about chickens.
II.
Chickens in the cold, pecking, fretting, and groaning. Chickens running and tottering, flapping their small wings. Chickens huddled in the shed, making their comforting sounds. Chickens’ eyes get heavy as they fall asleep with the warmth of their sisters. Thinking of them, I won’t have nightmares tonight.
III.
But often I do have nightmares. Looking at the yellow and grey evening sky, I think how chickens, sadly, do die. A mink’s massacre…a kindness after injuries…Accidents. “This is why I’m not ready to have a child,” I say over breakfast. But I accidentally became a chicken mother.
IV.
If I told you to picture a bird, I bet you would not think of a chicken. Chickens are seen as commodities, not animals. Chickens, in truth are thinking, feeling beings. They can remember and tell apart over a hundred different chickens. They have social hierarchies and close friends. They solve problems. They feel happiness, frustration, and grief. Chickens are people. We are chickens in other forms.
VI.
Six remain this morning.
I swear their eyes got wider.
Some have blood on them.
Layered cream feathers.
Hefty yet delicate.
Red faces, gold eyes.
In those eye I’ve seen
myself, since they were babies.
They aren’t stupid.
I think of chickens.
I wonder what it’s like
inside their minds.
I cry for the flock.
How they clung to the bodies.
(How they search and call for each other, still.)
All we can do now is heal.
VII.
I sit at the fire again, feeling cold. The cherry trees stand out on the skyline, stretching towards the long cloud, silhouetted by the white hills. When things go wrong, we must come together. We are creatures of instinct. If we cannot do this, the hurt is deep. I’ve known that hurt. I belong now. I belong to the forest, the hills, the garden, my rabbits, the deer, the grass carp and largemouth bass. I belong to the cherry trees, the ducks, the chickadees, the harriers, the swallows, the coyotes howling in the distance, the fox yipping. I belong to the grove of pine trees. I belong in the woods, in the pine grove, in the lake, warm in my bed, and by the fire. I belong with the chickens. When bad things happen, we are drawn together, huddling to stay warm. We tend to our flock.
When you love, life is brutal. When life is brutal, you must love.
The stratosphere breaks
Light and airy thoughts
Sky cracks of yellow, white, and orange
Brilliant sun through slate lavender clouds
Blush orange and cream horizon
Steel blue shapes, moody
Drifting whisps
Dusty rays of light descend
Ink on my cold hands
I long for community
And fear others humans
Navy hills loom
A pheasant thumps her wings
And disappears into the pines
Four crows fly overheard
Talking to one another
Humans belong to the land
Humans belong to the sky
And I have a clear vision of myself
(Writer, artist, healer, builder, animal)
Then the stratosphere breaks
Revealing baby blue.
Naked
My pale naked form
In the white window light
It’s Christmas and it’s snowing
Thick, warm air radiates
My walls are baby blue
My angled ceiling is larch wood
My blankets are soft fleece
I begin my reconnaissance
Of belly fat and cellulite
Of unruly dark hairs that poke out
Of the scars on my thighs
Whose origin I’m ashamed to recall
Of so called
Hip dips
But this time I halt
These reprimands are just habitual
Perhaps, maybe, bear with me….
My body is sacred
Male, female,
Or person on a journey
To be as I am, terrifying
But worth it
Just like my ancestors
I take this awkward, two-legged form
To the animals, we probably all look mostly the same
The ancient/Celtic wisdom before Rome
That we are creatures of earth
The queer realization
That we are moldable clay
With solid frames
Our bones outlast us
This once horrified me
I read of a lesbian feminist
Who said we may parade as men
With privilege
But the archaeologists
Will know the truth
This is absurd
But made me feel trapped
I dreamt of sanding down my hip bones
Was there a way?
I was a frankenstein monster in my mind
Where is the border between gender affirmation
And endless dysmorphic struggle?
I would transition, and still not feel alright
Testosterone gave me
The gift of my light beard
Fashioned me a baritone
Made me able to exist
Estrogen gives me
A shape and a softness
I now cherish
In which I feel at home, for now.
My pale naked form
In the white winter window light
The expansive air
I breathe in deeply
My own body
With no judgement
Just love
As a landscape
The Good parts
You and I in tiny blue camp chairs
Under a tarp in
The pouring rain
Making up a fake comedy show
And laughing
Our asses off
Sleeping in the RV
The sound of the river and mooing cows
When I rode a tube in the rapids
And almost got sucked under
a fallen tree
The first time we were really alone
You went to undo my jeans
To find I had tied them
With a knotted string
And you laughed
Because it was something
You would also do
We saw dolphins
We saw owls
We made our own light shows
And watched Star Trek in bed
When you had chest surgery
And insisted on
Watching “I Love Lucy”
In the hotel room
Until 5 am
And I let you
In the mornings
When you demand
“Where is my coffee, boy?”
And we always laugh
We always laugh
In the good parts
Those fucking flags
-January 6th, 2021
Those fucking flags
Navy with white font
Make me nauseous
As we pass them
On the country roads
That lead to our
Hidden paradise
I counted four today
When we went to the
Feed store
Those fucking flags
The yellow ones
With the snake
The confederate
What are they thinking, tonight?
Should I be preparing?
I suppose gun shots are normal out here
But I can’t get used to them
Yesterday I made eye contact
With a man my age
With a sticker
On his pickup truck
And when will the neighbors
Know who we are?
Can we keep them
From finding out?
I met Mike
He wants to be your buddy
He wants you to join his gun club
(We have no guns)
In my purple plaid, leggings,
hoop earrings and light beard
Who does he think I am?
Or Steve
who shot a deer who limped onto our property
And you helped him carry her away
And said you need to wash the blood
off your truck bed, pronto
and he asked, “the wife?”
And you, not dishonest, said, “yes.”
Do Mike and Steve talk
at the gun club?
Have they seen us holding hands
in your pickup
in the parking lot
of Tractor Supply?
You hug me tight
And say we’ll be just fine
I agree
that’s a lot of “what ifs”
This is our land
This is our dream
But those fucking flags
Those fucking flags
Those fucking flags
Two Selves
The child says he will not sleep
Until he writes the perfect poem
The adult says, yes, he will
And turns out the light
The child says he’s afraid of the dark
He’s afraid to sleep
He’s afraid of nightmares
The adult says, “I love you.
You’re safe.
Hold my hand.”
Elliott DeLine, Author 