42 Comments

If I could stand

between two trees

and feel the slightest

autumn breeze

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Ooooh this is so delightful! It swept me up and left me deliciously dangling, considering all of the possibilities that might follow your "if."

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Thank you, so many possibilities 💙

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Sep 27Liked by Lisa Jensen

Blew me away, Tanya (so to speak)

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So sweet and powerful in four magic lines! Thank you Tanya!

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I found out this week that my uncle has pancreatic cancer. He is awaiting treatment options but is also sleeping about 20 hours a day, meaning there's no real possibility of visiting. I'm not taking it well.

.

He is here but he is not

here, not really.

Here requires presence,

and his is elsewhere, at present, maybe

dreaming. Hopefully of beautiful things.

We are still waiting, to hear about The Plan.

But I know this space, this in-between,

and I am already grieving,

I'm just doing it more quietly.

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I can feel the ache between every word of this poem, A. I'm so sorry to hear about your uncle - the uncertainty, his illness, the loss of his presence, the in-between, and the hard knowing tucked into all the unknowing. I'm sending love your way, and his too.

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Thank you, Lisa 🧡

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A, I'm sorry to know of this loss-in-progress. Thank you for sharing your grief in such a beautiful way here. Wishing you and your family, including your uncle, peace and comfort.

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Thank you, Keith 🧡

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I’m so sorry. Sending lots of love and care ❤️‍🩹

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Sep 27Liked by Lisa Jensen

Your beautiful line breaks pull me in to the between space where the pain is fully present and

breathing.

His breath, slow, and yours, fearful

Thanks for the lesson: here is a space where all can enter, one of those deep universal commons that has no doors that could be closed, no windows, not even walls. Just an opening available whenever your feet guide you over a threshold that isn't even there

for now

only a deep space without end, small enough to hold you, large enough for each breath

and every yearning memory wish hope tired joy that crowds along, becoming the silence,

which is perhaps one of the older ways of describing love

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I'm so sorry, A. I do hope you'll get some special time with your uncle soon. Sending you love.

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Thank you, Rebekah 🧡

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I am so sorry to learn of your uncle’s diagnosis, A. Pancreatic cancer has scourged our family, and as with any cancer, the road is hard. Thinking of you, friend, and grateful that you have the spirit to find powerful words in a shadow time. 🙏🏻

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Thank you, Larry 🧡

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Sep 15·edited Sep 15Liked by Lisa Jensen

In between the light and the dark

Is the liminal space of shadow

On my walk I see a fluttering shadow

Alerting me to the butterfly

Floating above my head

In the heat of day or disagreement

Lies the respite from heat or anger

Blocking light or invective

As the consciousness of existence

Rests between two infinities

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There's something strangely magical about first seeing a being through its shadow! I was sitting by a creek a few weeks ago, watching dark little fish dart about, when suddenly I realized I wasn't watching them at all--that what I was watching was their shadows. The fish themselves were pale brown and barely visible.

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Interesting. Yet, even though only shadows we can still infer so much information. However, must always be aware of Plato's Allegory of the Cave. We can never infer with certitude.

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Haha so true! I hadn't paused to compare myself to the prisoners.

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If not in touch with our imagination, we are all prisoners. 🥲♐️♐️♊️

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I love the way your poem so vividly conveys a sense of breath-held urgency, then breaks at the inhale into a field of space and curiosity. When I pondered the concept of "between" I thought about how I'm seeing more and more the way in which unacknowledged, unprocessed grief stands between surviving and thriving.

***

Between what is and

what you wish had been

stretches a gap, vast and void

but for the echoes of grief

that ricochet

off your granite heart.

And between the flats

where you trudge and

the heights you wish to climb

lies a border fence,

barbed and razored

with that same keening grief.

There is no overpass,

no underpass, no bypass.

It is, as it seems,

an impasse.

Yet there is a way

to travel, the way

JC, MLK and all those who navigated

by the cosmic compass.

This way is simple but

not easy. It prioritizes

softness over stamina and

is paved with paradox.

This is its cartography:

to ascend, you must

dive deep and

to advance, you must

retreat.

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Oh my goodness, you are such a wordsmith, Keith! "No overpass, no underpass, no bypass" . . . "to ascend, you must / dive deep and / to advance, you must / retreat." You manage to be both so punchy and so profound. I know I've said some version of this a bazillion times, but when you take up the mantel of Spoken Word Poet, I will drive up to New England to be part of the standing ovation!

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Thank you, friend! My inner spoken word poet is thrilling at your enthusiasm! Stay tuned on an eventual weak-kneed approach to the mic ☺️

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I 100%agree with Lisa, Keith!!!!

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Oooh this is incredible, Keith. The last 6 lines in particular (beginning with "paved with paradox" -- brilliant!) grabbed me and asked to be re-read several times over.

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Needing this right now. Thank you, Keith.

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I do recall your level of activity, hectic pace, incessant problem solving. I have slept at stoplights, woken up by horns. What was the substance of those days? Overarchingly, the love of our sons painted all those days. I could not even conceive of what retirement meant. I enjoyed this, not least because of your competence as a writer, never to be underestimated. Here's one about having time.

https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/time-to-kill

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Sep 17·edited Sep 17Author

What a beautiful way of expressing that - days painted with love. My boys are growing up so quickly. Right now, there is paint (and chaos) everywhere - and some day I know I will miss that.

Your poem is lovely, Weston! I felt myself right there in that cafe, eternity stretching all around me and a dog at my feet.

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The space between endless tasks, the meal time negotiations, the gum! This was all so relatable 💞

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I'm so glad . . . and also hope you find space to rest within your own endless tasking!

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Lovely poem--the rush of in betweens, and then the slow down. The list of prompts is super intriguing, too.

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Sep 17·edited Sep 17Author

Thank you, Margaret Ann! I'm sure you could come up with a doubly impressive rush, given that you have twice as many children as I do! (Six, right? Or am I making that up?)

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No, you’re right—six. I feel like I mention the number a lot 😁. Honestly, though, once the first kid comes along, life gets a billion times more complicated.

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I loved reading your poem Lisa, and like Weston Parker's comment below, I know there is a lessening of the looking after children (my 3 are late teens and one is 22). My stage or phase of life is feeling guilty that I don't do enough for my kids and I leave them to it. Also ageing parents! All my friends have ageing parents and some who've passed away. This is life I suppose, and the gaps between are for rest and reflections. Much love xx

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Kath!!!!! Seeing your name here put a big smile on my face. Thank you for your comment. I have so many friends who are currently doing some degree of caretaking for their parents, and I'm beginning to get a picture of just how all-consuming and heart-rending that can be. As you say, "this is life I suppose" . . . but all the same, I'm wishing you (and the generations on either side of you) the best of what's possible.

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Sep 16Liked by Lisa Jensen

Lisa, I must be brief but just know that I deeply love and deeply see myself in your poem. Thank you.

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Thank you so much, Mike! We parent poets have to hang together. ❤️

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Let's call this "If Not Tiny, My House is at Least Very Small."

.

Where there is space, I plug it

with books and appliances,

surplus paper products, bulk snacks,

shoes, art supplies, kindling,

dog beds, actual dogs, donation piles.

There are seven boxes of onions curing

at the foot of my bed, like family gathered

for my last breaths, only who could breathe

through all the offgassing?

.

I am grateful for air, for my home’s

generous third dimension,

for the limits to my own invasiveness.

I have not yet devised a way to

stuff the unseen.

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This is wild and wonderful, Rebekah! The ending is superb, “I have not yet devised a way/to stuff the unseen.” And truly love the notion of filling up space and the “onions curing”! What a delightful and evocative image. You are truly a poet of the earth and the elements, Rebekah!

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This is remarkable and brilliant, Lisa! I love the way you bring the moments of every day life into clear focus, and draw me in to those countless tasks, duties and missions of a mom. The cadence and rhythm of your “in between” statements are so magical and compelling, and so creative and clear. And the whole poem is so relatable: the truth of bribery as a means to good hygiene is splendid, and I imagine that every caregiver of children and youth has been at least tempted by that ageless device.

I have been sick all week and not been able to keep up with much of anything, but I am circling through! Thank you for being out there and here!

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