Cancer Lifeline Collaborative Show
Members of the Northwest Collage Society have been invited to take part in a Collaborative Show with Cancer
Lifeline. Forty-two (42) new poems have been written by members of Cancer Lifeline. This will not be a juried
show. There will be space for 30 collage pieces, and the selection will be made on a first come, first served
basis.
Here are the instructions for participation in the Cancer Lifeline Show:
1. Review the following poems and and make your selection. (It’s OK if more than one person chooses a
poem.)
2. Send an email to John Arbuckle with your choice of poem by its number: [email protected]. John
will keep a tally and advise us when we have reached the number 30.
3. Please base your collage on your interpretation of their poem. You are free to relate to the poem in your own
personal way. There are no size requirements, but all pieces must be framed or finished for gallery hanging
with wire. NO sawtooth hangers.
4. When you have completed you work, please email John with the title, size, and price of your piece.
5. You will need to deliver your artwork to the Dorothy O’Brien Center at 6522 Fremont Ave N, Seattle, on
October 20th, 1:30–4:00 PM.
6. The opening reception will be October 27th in the evening, time to be announced.
7. You will need to pick up your artwork on December 20th, 1:30–4:00 PM.
If you have additional questions please email or call: [email protected]
Jan Clem, 425-743-2639, John Arbuckle, 425-835-0203
Happy Collaging!
www.nwcollagesociety.org
www.cancerlifeline.org
1
Prayer for the Cancer Lifeline Dorothy S. O’Brien Center
Healing and the Arts
May the spirits of community gather together here
Connections to the soul
May the seeds of compassion & wisdom find fruition here
Colorful blooms of flowering Metta*
May the dreams of the hidden child awaken from deep slumber
And find sweet release in nurtured expression
May our creative muses strike dialogues with the Sacred
And heal our souls
And may the process of empowerment transform our path
And open our hearts to love
Judy Ellis
2
Thin curtains between us, four girls, round faces, I.V. poles and bags, some clear, some colored,
their dripping enter thin lines that feed into arms covered with thin cotton. Between nurse visits,
the curtains pull back, as wanted, and stories swapped across linoleum and white-sheeted space.
Young girls left alone to worry, heal, dream of better days back at school, first jobs, maybe a
boyfriend and a dance. In the evening, the families come, flowers, cards, milkshakes, whispered
words, a little laughter. The families envelop me, as I am alone, 3,000 miles from family,
friends, pets…I get flowers too, Rum Raisin ice cream that I eat dutifully out of gratefulness.
They send a social worker, a chaplain after I tell the nurse never to touch me again with her
distaste for patient care and inability to start an I.V. I'm not belligerent, I'm 20 and a long way
from home and afraid they'll send me back without ever experiencing life in NYC, my
therapeutic recreation internship, and experiences profoundly different than anything I've ever
known, and maybe my new kidney really will die and the machine will again keep me company
three days a week when I'd rather be exploring the world and its wonders. I'd rather be taking
my patients to Central Park, to festivals with cannoli and calzone, to symphonies and Irish pubs.
Beneath the sheets, my thinly veiled despair, mixed with a whisper and dream of hope, lie in
wait for the medicines to do their job and the doctors signature to sign me and the other girls’
release from this very small room.
Janet Hasselblad
2.16.16
3
From a poem titled "You" by Kim Addonizio: You were the daughter looking for your mother's
grave.
When you found it, near the headstone of your father's grave (the final resting place for a
wonderful man who had died 51 years earlier), you were once again struck by the words
inscribed on your mother's grave -- words that she, herself, had requested in writing sometime
prior to her death in November 2000.
"She died with all her music in her." These words, literally etched in stone, saddened me greatly
yet, at the same time, were a "cautionary tale" for my own life. These eight words spoke of
unfulfilled dreams and regret. Months after Mom died, as my siblings and I were unearthing
piles and piles of papers that she had amassed during her 87 years, we found, on yellowed paper,
the Oliver Wendell Holmes poem that had inspired Mom's inscription request:
"A few can touch a magic string and noisy fame is glad to win them. Alas for those who never
sing and die with all their music in them."
Helen R. Haladyna
4
12-11-2014
This group of women is both my anchor and my life vest. They ground me and lift me up
at the same time. The sharing of thoughts and dreams, hopes and fears, laughter and losses
happens so naturally in this room. This room of survivors and warrior queens – daughters,
mothers, sisters, grandmothers. Real women, whose wisdom has come through living every day
and facing whatever life has thrown at them. In this room, we let ourselves be –knowing
everything we put forth from our pens or our mouths will be gently held and we will be nurtured.
What an incredible feeling! I am so lucky to have found this place to be.
Sue Bartels
5
NOW
Let this be the elegant moment
with no need for apology,
Enjoy the sunshine and
the scenery along the way.
How many ghosts and pumpkins
can you count?
The colorful leaves on the trees
are not permanent.
Soon they will be blown down
and eventually disappear
mingled with rain and possible snow
unrecognizable by spring.
So eat your ice cream before dinner,
serve the cookies with the soup.
Let curiosity take over.
the heck with getting things done.
There will be hours and hours,
days and days, for cleaning the house,
vacuuming the floors
paying the bills.
Let T H I S moment sparkle in eternity.
Judy Sloniker
6
Mental Health Month
After all the months I have written about
depression, I can say that I'm in a
wonderful space,
even a little high.
Was it the trip or was that only one part
of it?
Whatever it was, I am so grateful.
Now I think I have to be careful not letting
my mood get too high.
Get the proper amount of sleep and
relaxation.
But in the meantime I am just reveling in it.
The driving is easier,
people are smiling at me
and saying "hello."
I have to thank my Cancer Lifeline group
for always being there.
Writing For the Moment is a lifeline for me.
Judy Sloniker
7
Weed, teach me.
You are just another plant, after all.
Fireweed, red and lanky
Not easily discouraged.
Oxalis, false clover,
ever the lucky charm
delving underground,
small white bulbs
they cling and survive.
Weed, teach me.
I’m not longer afraid
to be mistaken for you.
I flower too,
easily as any daisy.
I can thrive in difficult places
Ground, not of my choosing.
I want to learn from you, weed,
turn toward the sun
on a rocky patch of earth
and, yield,
gracefully,
when the time comes.
Barb Chilcote
8
Cancer Blew the Roof Off
It was a magnitude ten
on the Richter Scale.
The foundation cracked,
earth gave way.
We were tossed from our beds,
like so many others before
and those to come.
They will wake, bewildered,
in the dark,
scrabbling to stand on broken glass.
Barb Chilcote
9
Cancer 3
Cancer, you rogue,
you jester.
Clown of clowns,
yet not entertaining.
Cancer, you fool.
You make yourself at home
and stay awhile,
host be damned.
Cancer, you are a
natural beauty,
cloning yourself again and again
like a woman transfixed
by her mirror,
enchanted by a string of pearls,
a new one added every day.
Every day, another oyster
left for dead.
Barb Chilcote
10
Cancer 4
Cancer says hello from the voids
waving it slippery fingers at me
Silver like a fish
or last night’s moon.
Cancer took me to the moon and back,
Like some say love
will do.
So that I was high up in a summer sky
a thin paring of light
and below the granite mountains
of danger,
of avalanche and perilous falls.
Cancer said hello to me
in its breezy
and deadly way,
and then it stuck by me
like a friend will do
through thick or thin.
And like a friend,
Cancer said what
I needed to know
but didn’t want to hear.
Oh the secrets from the void,
the whisper of Cancer
circling my head saying:
“Moon set,
Moon set coming.”
Barb Chilcote
11
“the heart, mistaken for the place where the elusive soul resides”
snippet of Rafael Campo’s poem “Doctors Lie, May Hide Mistakes”
If soul does not reside in the heart,
And a person wears their heart on their sleeve,
Then their soul could be in the vacated space in the chest cavity.
A soul chest.
Is that like a hope chest?
Does our soul have hopes and dreams –
Or is our soul our hopes and dreams?
And when our dreams wither and die,
Does our soul die as well?
Does soul music contribute to having a healthy, vibrant soul Stimulated into expansion to fill the chest cavity,
Vacated by the heart relocating to our sleeve?
What are the signs and symptoms of “soul sickness”?
A fever and chills? A vacant stare? Sneezing and blowing?
Can “soul sickness” be detected by the use of a cold stethoscope laid on the chest?
If the soul is sick, does it shrink in the chest cavity So in using a stethoscope, one would hear an echo Hearing the hollow space that the soul shrinkage has left?
Or maybe, our soul is in every cell of our bodies,
And, like our cells, regenerate over time –
So our soul remains constant.
I think my soul dances when I smile, laugh, cry, belch,
Drive fast, dance slow, gaze at a sunset, hug my Beloved.
My soul is healthy – in spite of me.
~ Sue Bartels
12
In Praise of Voices
Voices of misery, voices of rage
so much pain, so much fear
blocked vision, no clear way through
no breath to calm the fear, no hope to clear the way
clinging to life, not knowing how
how did we get here, how do we get away
will someone take my hand, will someone hear my plea
will someone hold me close
Still the trembling, help me think
Reach out, listen, attend, be there
that’s what it takes – just being there
a presence that needs no praise
Helen McDuffie
13
Poetry
Poetry is a gift wrapped in gaze and light
to be opened slowly and savored layer by layer
depths of language revealed as each layer unfolds
bearing the heart’s message, the beseecher’s plea
allowing a vision of our soul’s spirit and longing
to connect us to each other in joy, in sadness, in life.
Helen McDuffie
14
Moon Magic
I so miss the moon over Eliot Bay. She would slowly peak over Queen Anne Hill glowing a
deep amber, waning to bright yellow as she rose higher in the night sky. Often I would turn my
lights out to bask in the burnished glow, soft shadows spreading round, the comfort of her
presence. Often her glow would outline Mt. Rainer reflecting her light from snowy peaks. It
was then I yearned for a golden tongue to paint the scene. My words never portray what my eyes
behold.
Helen McDuffie
15
Susie
She was the prize on the punchboard at the bar. My dad, ever the gambler, brought her home to
me. Stuffed and huggable, dressed like a roly-poly cadet, which somehow never matched her
stature. But toys of any kind showed up rarely at my house so this was a special surprise. I soon
found out I could take scraps of fabric and sew on a new outfit at will. Even her soft face could
be stitched and painted with new expressions and joy. Most of all her softness brought comfort
and calm as we cuddled together at night to dream of possibilities not of our world – a practice
that continued well beyond the years of my childhood in which there was much love but little
softness. I wonder if my dad knew what a need Susie would fill as he punched out numbers on
that board until Susie was his to bring home to me.
Helen McDuffie
16
Echoes
It's not easy quieting
the child's voice,
as it listens to its echo
ride across the canyon-over and over and over.
Once more, it trails off into
the cloudless sky.
It's not easy holding a gaze,
deeply listening
when nerves fray
and masks drop.
Then, sometimes, when least
expected, thoughts fall
away, an echo rides back
across the canyon, faint and lingering.
I see you plainly, simply,
rising to meet me.
Roselle Kovitz
17
Outside the Lines
Who taught us to color inside the lines,
leave no errant trail where pigments
merge, cross mysterious divides?
When does our vision begin to contract?
Limit hues to what we know?
Draw borders to keep each other in, out,
toys safely inside our dark chests?
How is it we rank ourselves above
judge some worthy when picking our team,
others born for our pleasure, their pain?
What happens to those who slip
across the edge of our fears
lay exotic colors, shapes on our page,
shift our static images?
Who taught us to color inside the lines
when we don’t even know where lines
come from, where they go,
which side we are really on?
Roselle Kovitz
18
Journey
Is it enough
to have traveled
a distance,
with many stops,
many seatmates?
Some just shadows
coming, going,
as blurred as scenery
passing, as light
as the brush
of a silk scarf.
Others so weighty,
they change your vision,
dreams, breath,
never leaving,
even when they do.
And what about the hushed,
unspoken, undone, mysterious
indelible?
Like entering
the caves on Capri—
incandescence floats up,
lighting the way.
--Roselle Kovitz
19
Finding my Identity
Instead of a cradle, an incubator
Instead of one race, two
Instead of two legs, a chair with wheels
Instead of Hi's and hellos, stares, glares and silence
Instead of a regular classroom, Special Ed, which should be renamed Western State Hospital
Instead of actors and rock stars, TV news anchormen
I speak normal
Jaws drop and hit the floor
I found my identity: Unique
Allison Totey
20
“Fiftieth Birthday”
What is it that keeps us going? Okay, own it, what is it that keeps me going? I remember a long
time ago, when my first nephrologist said I probably wouldn't experience complete kidney
failure and therefore need to start on dialysis until I was 50. At the age of 16 age 50 was so
unfathomable I couldn't comprehend what the misguided, delusional doctor was saying. But I
cried anyway. Nine months later, still 16, I was dialyzing 3x/week while my friends, and most of
my world, were not thinking about mortality.
Now, here I am, with 50 in my rear view mirror and 55 coming in a few months, and I'm relieved
I never gave up. I'm glad I “soldiered” on in spite of it all. I've loved and lost. I've married and
survived that travesty, and then finally married again, yes, fallen in love with a kind soul who
takes care of me so well. So well.
What keeps me going is an endless supply of hope and the knowledge that I have already
survived what could have been unsurvivable. Now, when the dark veil falls over me and the
nights are long and painful, I know, with the deepest knowing possible, that this too shall pass. It
has before and it will again. There is hope and belief in the promise of morning.
What keeps me going? Becoming wiser and letting go of old bad habits and beliefs. That don't
serve me anymore. I look forward to getting older, not only because the alternative is very
unpleasant, but also because I anticipate that wisdom will multiply and by the time I'm a
shriveled purple-wearing crone, they'll wheel me to the top of my own mountain and the
youngsters will seek me out for the wisdom I'll dispense for a small fee (because I can.)
Janet Hasselblad
21
Near the End
Near the end
you might feel as if you are entering new territory.
And in a moment,
shorter or longer depending on your journey,
you might realize that you recognize this place,
that you have known it all along,
known it was there just on the other side of the veil.
In the midst of The Busy Years
this may seem far away, non-existent, unreal.
But it is always there,
just as the stars are in the sky
even when the sun bathes the side of the planet we are on.
Near the end,
we are near the beginning.
This truth can be wonderful and terrifying
all at the same time.
But we have crossed many endings and beginnings
along our way.
We have practiced transitions,
made it through them again and again.
Listen for the music
The stars are singing.
You are loved.
Alison Eckels
22
Carving the Durian *
Forget baby steps.
You are past the innocence of mother's milk,
Have brushed new flavors across your taste buds.
Forget careful, abandon nice,
Renounce trying to be a writer.
Carve into the durian and let loose
Its wild aroma banned from subways
Its stench sending people running fast
and far away from you.
Be brave
And meet those flavors
a fruit that tastes of garlic and cream, wet garbage and gasoline.
Make noise when all else fails.
Alison Eckels
* Durian - a Southeast Asian spiny, football-sized fruit, famous for its fouls smell.
Each person who eats it describes the flavor differently.
23
"Tell me about the word stars"
I heard it as word-stars
and saw the Milky Way and all our stars and constellations as dancing words
as a song made of the vibrations of those words
Each star a word, a poem, a song
Open our ears to hear
Our hearts to be thankful
The word-stars dance
to music we can only hear
if we go deep within ourselves
The word-stars dance in the heavens
in our blood
in our lymph
in our rivers
in our oceans
The word-stars sing to us when we sleep
We bring fragments of their song
back to our waking world.
It doesn't matter if we don't know how to spell world
its molecules dance inside us, and all around us,
dance to the music of the word-stars
Alison Eckels
24
Doubt
Doubt, you Thief!
Why do I unlock the door and let you in?!
You trample on all I know and hold dear.
You have no shame about leaving your muddy footprints everywhere.
You find a new excuse each day.
You don't take "No" for an answer.
You just barge in anyway.
I know your best trick:
to make me try to think my way through:
over, under, around you.
You are a chameleon changing colors,
an amoeba morphing shape.
You are a black spot
right in the center of my line of sight.
Doubt, You are the Devil's handmaiden,
silent partner to the Devil's other trickster
who persuades us to endlessly strive for perfection.
I have learned.
I cannot think my way out of doubt.
Sometimes I step aside,
decline the confrontation,
choose humor instead
Laughter brings in a spark of light, of faith.
But you, sneaky Thief,
will test me again and again,
the next day and the next.
Alison Eckels
25
Clusters
More than a second chance,
I want a third, fourth, fifth.
Each day a resurrection, one more
iteration of self. Today a Hindu,
tomorrow a Jew. By the end
of the week, I’ll be an atheist,
leave all the gods and goddesses
to their own all-to- human devices.
I will speak Urdu on Wednesdays,
sing opera on Thursday, plant
the desert with date palms, make
them flourish. I will stop strangers
in the street, offer them slices of pie,
custard or berry, small cups of espresso
on the side. No reason to persist
in my same rutted old ways.
Chances hang in ripe clusters.
Let me grab some as I whirl by.
Sylvia Byrne Pollack
26
Sometimes it’s Better
Beneath the bedroom’s dresser drawer,
nestled in fluff that was my skin,
plus bayberry pollen, cobweb shreds,
and bodies of dead ants, an earring glints.
One of a pair, its mate consigned
to the Goodwill bin, hope of reunion
given up. Shall I rescue this survivor,
set myself up to mourn the loss again?
Sometimes it’s better not to ask “what if?”
What if the car that hit my grandson
had been traveling just a bit faster? Or if
he hadn’t flown off the bike before
the car ran over it? Let some things lie.
Let them gather dust, disappear from
consciousness. Unmind them.
Befriend other thoughts.
Sylvia Byrne Pollack
27
On Track
I can feel it beating now
this lady horse heart
beating beating
inside me, inside
Beating…beating…
…not in any race
not trying to beat anyone…
or to come in first.
not jockeying at all
no odds against me.
Heart. Just beating, beating.
Laps for the sheer joy of it
the ecstasy…
the pride
of staying the course.
And now…
the homestretch
years mounting…
this lady horse heart beats strong as ever
in will…in spirit…
in warm soft nuzzling…
though not so strong
in the very flesh
Gait slowing
no blinders,
seeing clearly
Nothing a blur these days
Ears up: tuned in to a misty air…
the pull of a distant wind
Rita Bresnahan
28
Hoboglyphs
“There’s a strange man standing in front of our house.”
When we were kids, it happened so often that after a while we scarcely commented on it any
more. It was usually a hobo, as transients were called during the Depression, and eventually he’d
come around to the back porch and knock. Our mother was ever gracious…and her kids ever
curious.
We lived only a block from the railroad tracks. A traveling hungry man always arrived during
the day, when Dad wasn’t home. But neither Mom nor any of us kids were ever frightened. Nor
were we ever harmed or taken advantage of.
Our family was certainly experiencing the hard times too. But Mom would always rustle up an
apple and a peanut butter sandwich, with a glass of milk. Us kids would gather around the visitor
as he munched, and he would tell us tales of life on the rails. Often he had kids too, back in some
place like Oklahoma or Arkansas, but could find no job there. “Are there any jobs around here?”
they’d often ask.
Unrelated we thought, Mom would often ask us kids about the chalk pictures and other coal
marks on the sidewalk in front of our house. Especially a stick-drawing of an oval cat lying
down…Which one of us was responsible? Where did we find the chalk? She wasn’t mad at us,
just curious. Each of us continuously denied having any part in the sidewalk scribbles.
Only decades later, we discovered that the drawings had been the handiwork of our hobo friends!
They used a code language, informing their fellow hobos who might arrive on the next train:
“This is a friendly house. They’ll give you something to eat.”
Rita Bresnahan
29
###
In the 4 dimensional space-time continuum
We are still standing there
on the sandy bank
The two little boys
pull blackberries from the vine
Dropping a few token berries into the basket
In between mouthfuls of sweetness
Toes squishing in mud
I hold the girl’s warm toddler body
up to the highest branches
If i could find a way
I’d bend the fabric of time back to this point
To the endless summer day
That still exists in my mind
Hot and bright
When the children were still young
We rambled home down country lanes
mud-spattered and complete
Hands and faces sticky with blackberry juices
Skin warmed by sunlight
Our bellies full of ripe fruit
We set the basket on the kitchen table
Then piled into bed for a nap
Less than a year later i saw them for the last time
Just before leaving their grandmother
Knowing i might never see them again
By now they are grown-ups
I hope they’ve gone off to college by now
Young and full of hope for their futures
I wonder if they recall that summer trek
But am comforted knowing
The muddy bank of the river
the blackberries, the sun
Will live inside of them forever
Caerdwyn Torrez
30
###
Every day I miss the frogs
Singing to me from the lily pads
On endless summer days and nights
Puffs of clouds float by
Bright white on the mirrored surface of the pond
Frogs serenade me at dusk
From mud under the roots of the purple iris
Their deep froggy voices croaking to me
A cacophony of gentle harmonies
Crickets trilling the chorus
the birch trees reach white fingers toward the stars
papery bark glowing in moonlight
This place I am long gone from
Endlessly calling me back home
Caerdwyn Torrez
for some reason death
has never frightened me
sheer chance blessed me
Working with people in their final years
I never planned this path
but took to it
the way a fish learns to swim
I took them in bevies
to basketball games,
dinner concerts
senior center dances
me and my twelve aging parents
a procession of walkers and wheelchairs
finally settling in chairs around a shared
table
feasting together
outside under a sunny sky
laughing over caprese sandwiches
black bean chili
potato salad, fresh watermelon
they took to each other like a gang of thieves
introducing themselves each time
as though they'd never met
repeating the same questions
over and over
it's so nice to meet you
what was your name again?
oh, one would exclaim each time
we grew up so near each other
and I'd smile behind my steaming green
bowl of soup
the first time one of them died
I felt broken apart
by the second and the third
I learned to ride sorrow
like surfing a wave
by the time I got to stephe
I'd had a lot of practice
I sat by his bed holding his hand
while the light faded
after his last breath I helped him
out of his spring green hospital gown
dressed him in his brown tweed suit
no one tells you how hard it is
to dress a body with no life left in it
the words dead weight
made sense to me for the first time
and even though I struggled
sliding the cloth over his still limbs
it felt like the right thing to do
stephe would have been horrified to be
buried
in anything but his best
until his final days in that bed
I'd never seen his tall slender frame
in clothes other than a suit
always spiffy in
his long white beard
he kept neatly trimmed
Santa Claus in a suit
he liked to wear his fuzzy red and white hat
during the winter holidays
a remnant of his past
of listening to childish wishes
whispered in his ear
we waltzed together
while he was still able
and he'd bend down to my ear
to tell me how he and his wife
took lessons at the fred astaire school of
dance
after dressing him in his suit
I sat vigil by his side
anything else felt like abandonment
I waited with him for the mortuary workers
to come and retrieve him
they arrived looking like children
I turned him over to their capable hands
and they carried him away
for one last ride
Caerdwyn Torrez
32
Tomorrow would be my mother's 107th birthday and Saturday my father's, had they both
survived. Mom was almost 96 when she died, after many years of being unable to communicate
or move her limbs. Dad, however, was an engaging 62 year old when he succumbed to surgical
complications. What was the purpose of their respective ends? What determines how and when
we die?
A man in our cancer support group, whose wife had died of ovarian cancer a couple years ago,
took his ever-smiling face, generous hospitality, and delight in new experiences to his new home
in Arizona. I was disappointed that he moved while I was gone, and I hadn't had a satisfying
good-bye. It wasn't until last Thursday night that it dawned on me that we both had cell phones,
and I could call him! Friday morning he died of an apparent heart attack. A surprise to everyone.
Often cancer survivors will comment that now they know they will die of cancer. Of course that
is not true. My friend has re-illustrated that for us. We do not --cannot-- know when or how we
will die. Most of us, that is. And we do not know when we will lose a loved one. All we know is
this moment. Make that phone call while you can.
Mardie Holden
33
Ribbit
Isn't it true that some frogs go dormant in the dust of a dry pond, awaiting a seasonal downpour
to soften their stiff limbs and bring them to life again? Not "croaking" in the sense of dying, but
croaking their songs of rebirth?
Isn't it true? I think it is. I choose that it is. Unexpected new life, with blessings from the sky.
I choose that I will have new life--restfulness, clearheadedness, enthusiasm, energy, transformed
by my vacation. On the airplane my brain and body will be realigned with the sun. Chakras reenlivened, solar plexus re-strengthened, heart re-warmed, and third eye seeing clearly again.
Dried up right now, I imagine that my energy is underground, waiting to bud. "Hey buds below,
up is where to grow," the song goes. And outdoors the buds are growing. Lilies are rising up, and
tulips respond to the Spring rain by bursting forth in color. Some new seeds unexpectedly take
root. I hold the promise of spring buds and deep roots. Simmering, eager for renewal.
Mardie Holden
34
Acrostics
Death may be no more than an
Event that happens
Along the path, the next
Transition, this one to a newly
Healthy being.
Do
You
Intend to
Not
Go?
Love this gift, even
If I sometimes resist the
Forms it takes.
Eventually, acceptance.
Life
Is
Virtually
Inventing
New
Ground.
Mardie Holden
35
The First Eight Days of Baldness
after Jane Kenyon
1. A pillowcase littered with short brown parentheses.
2. A cat forlorn with mange.
3. My husband owns a pair of electric clippers.
4. A newly shorn recruit.
5. A glimpse in the mirror is a shock to the heart.
6. Cute hats.
7. Crabby cashiers are nicer.
8. The toxins are working.
Katie Tynan
36
Jama, my love
In my mind’s eye I see you sitting at the end of he table,
perky new hat perched on your head
brim slightly askew and tipping rakishly to one side
above the mischievous grin below.
Your determination and grit took the anger of grief
And energized a new plan when old strategies fell short,
Pushing you another way with optimism and hope.
You never minced words or preached platitudes;
hope prevailed, leavened by reality and acceptance,
a spiritual reverence you shared and treasure
as you fought valiantly to live
and gently passed where hugs and love are eternal
Helen McDuffie
37
For Jama
We’ve been missing you around the writing table
your sweet ways
always ready to hug or be hugged
your optimism
your strong beliefs
the way you looked forward to each new treatment with renewed hope.
Your willingness to rage when things weren’t going well
your face animated and highly colored
your tears flowing.
We carry the grief willingly
because we love you.
You told us once about a caregiver who sat down and asked,
“Who are you? Tell me about yourself.”
The angels hold glass doors open for you now
and your spirit soars through.
You walk, you run, you fly!
Judy Sloniker
38
Even with the push-pull of memory and dreaming ahead, the current walk down the sidewalk
with my bagel and a schmear is preferred over longing, regret and anxiety for what is yet to
come and what has just passed. Today is now, I can wrap my around the too hot sun, my aching
feet, the smells coming from Ray's pizza place, the Murray Hill flower stall, the inky black
asphalt being poured on Second Avenue. Even with the knot in my heart and the warm tears
inching their way up and out of my eyes, I can clearly say this moment is better than that.
I didn't know if I would live to be eighteen at one time in my life. I didn't know what was going
on inside my body. Maybe I still don't. I didn't know if I'd ever travel, and yet I have, a lot,
sometimes with a kidney machine by my side. I didn't know if I'd find love or it would find me.
Yet, after all, after the sinking of one ship, a new one sailed into the harbor and I have a
companion for the journey. I didn't know if I would find meaning and ways to contribute after I
had to retire at age fifty. All these things, they are past. The questions, self doubt and fears are
part of yesterday and like the sun pulling the scenery out from the shadows, today is clear as I
walk, see, smell, touch and hear.
I'm not looking for perfect anymore. What I thought I couldn't live without is neither here nor
there. I'm okay with not seeing, doing or knowing it all. Being alive, for me, is quite an
accomplishment. I'll bask in that.
Janet Hasselblad
39
Eight balls draw me like
a child to a puddle.
How can you know its depth
unless you give it a stomp,
a flick.
Question answered in the arc
as words, bubbles, messages
float to surface.
Don’t count on it.
Definitely not.
Maybe yes.
Why do I query a plastic ball?
Why am I still drawn to puddles
and following water as it streams
downhill?
Because I want certainty
to be given to me,
not found inside my own floating ball
of thoughts.
Peggy Sturdivant
40
Drought Days
We think we’ve done nothing with our time
as though every day is the scoreboard
in a ballpark not yet branded.
Balls, strikes, fouls and outs.
We never count our breaths,
our thoughts, as runs.
Instead of rejoicing in another day of life
We put ourselves down in the dugout
floor dirty with tobacco spittle
and self-loathing
while over our heads there are fireworks,
wild and brilliant.
Peggy Sturdivant
On May 5, 2016 the beloved former Executive Director of Cancer Lifeline died unexpectedly.
She was still fully engaged with Cancer Lifeline and we see everything that is created here as
part of her legacy. The following two pieces are from her fellow writers, written after her death.
41
Aurora
Polar Light
Sleeping Beauty
Goddess of Dawn
Fierce soul
Joyous warrior
Suffragette in the crusade to be free,
A woman,
Loving and laughing into happiness.
There you were,
Seeking the source of many streams as you went
Cascading through the mysteries of consciousness,
Giving your boundlessness in small, digestible measures,
Dancing on both sides of the thin veil between now and before/next.
My heart is still pinched.
Not yet able to let you go,
I bring my grief to your table,
Knowing I will leave with more of you, more of me, when I go.
Ann Lodwig Brand
June 7, 2016
42
One book at a time with Aurora
I shared an afternoon with Aurora last Sunday.
Jan was there, too. And Julie, and Jenny.
How is it that I had the honor and privilege of holding each of Aurora’s books? And meeting her
book friends, one by one:
Her poet friends: Frost, Sarton, Oliver, Olds, Whyte, Hanh, Lamott, Berry, Walker, Dickinson.
Her children’s book friends: Karla Kuskin, Jane Yolen, Justice, Jacob Lawrence, Pierr Morgan,
Burnett,
Her fiction friends: Stegner, Barbery, Banks, Smith, Unsworth, Walker, Angelou,
Her non-fiction friends: McCullough, Ambrose, Ta-Nehisi Coates,
Her writing book friends: Lamott, Peter Elbow, Tiberghien, Barrington, Ueland, Rico, Stillman,
Nichols,
Her political friends: Gwen Ifill, Bob Woodward, Edward Kennedy, Thomas Jefferson,
Her inspirational friends: Eileen Cady, and books of meditation
Her big idea friends: Malcolm Gladwell, Bill Bryson, Spencer Johnson, Bill Gates Sr., Joseph
Campbell, Edward O. Wilson (Consilience), and books about Findhorn.
Her food for thought friends: Sue Bender, Helen Greaves,
Her artist friends: Maya Lin, Jacob Lawrence,
Her grandchildren’s poetry tied together with a satin ribbon.
So there she was in her sunny home last Sunday afternoon, smiling her beautiful smile, and
understanding so much, while sitting on my shoulder as I pulled another book off the shelf.
But I must say, she was there, and she wasn’t.
She couldn’t say, “Nancy, read this one. But skip that one.”
She couldn’t say, how many books were gifts from her daughters. Were gifts from her dear
friends. Were gifts to herself.
I looked for her in the doorway all afternoon.
N J Cope, June, 2016