I am not a religious woman, but an angel appeared today in the woods. I was tangled in leashes, blue sack mitten and no free hands. “I’ll take it,” she beamed, descending from sky. Bag untied, steam rising like prayer, I stretched out a hand. She received my humble offering.
dressed in full wonder woman regalia and a scary neon green wig that probably glowed in the dark,
perched motionless in a small white lawn chair behind one of those wooden tv trays that she had herself placed off to the side
of her mom's halloween yard sale.
one silver plastic serving dish sat on the tray, piled high with her handiwork, 3 white packing peanuts shoved into a snack size zip lok bag. Dozens of them.
I was finally jolted out of my stunned wtf haze
by a way too husky voice
coming unseen from behind that pair of probably mom's huge dark sunglasses:
"ghost poop - one dollar"
I slowly slipped a 5 in her jar and quickly moon walked my ass out of there, finally able to breathe.
Thank you Lisa, for a splendid poem and two choices for prompts! I went with stranger, as one of my great and simple joys is meeting new folks and striking up conversations. Some begin long friendships, others are one time events. No matter, thay all help light my way.
Thank you Lisa! I am trying to think of a good antonym and synonyms for “.stranger.” Just being unfamiliar does not make someone else strange! And, some people I know all too well seem, ahem, stranger than fiction!
Your poop angel got me to thinking about a very different kind of encounter I had with an angel of sorts the summer before last that has definitely stayed with me and was basically clamoring to be shared when I saw the prompt (thank you Lisa, for all the imagination you put into these incredible prompts). I felt called to write this as a prose poem for some reason, maybe to reflect the density and intensity of the encounter. TRIGGER WARNING, the encounter involves the mention of suicide. Whew. Okay, here it is.
*
On an otherwise ordinary Sunday in August, he manifests through the trees in a halo of sunlight, skin so pale it is translucent and blue, his pajamas blue too and wet where they meet his muddy slippers on the forest floor. "Hello," he says, "Hellohellohello???" I spin around to retreat, but he won’t relent, and I cannot rewind, rewrite nor circumvent this scene so instead I crack like an acorn under the pressure of his next words which are "Can you help me?" Inexplicably, it’s neither yes nor no that spill from my mouth but the much more open-ended "What’s going on?" and I can hear these words sopping with impatience that pools in the space between us, but not for long, because just like that, he drops his answer, and it splashes all the impatience right out of the question. "Yeah," he says, "I want to kill myself and I’ve been hunting for the right poisonous mushrooms to do just that, but I can’t find them." I do not want to know this/I do not want to help/I do not want to have my sunny Sunday morning walk hijacked by a despondent soul/I am not feeling compassion, but irritation and I do not know how to respond to this anguished apparition. I consider the options and wonder if you should ask a suicidal man in his pajamas for consent before calling for help but of course you do when some bit of grace puts you back in your body and reminds you that he is a human being like you and when that same grace also reminds you that the police are not always the best or only option when one needs help in not killing themself. So, I ask his consent and he, unlike me, has access to his yes. Now grace moves my fingers across the numbers 911 on the touch screen and I am in another surreal conversation with a different stranger, their disembodied voice in my ear as I keep my eyes on this soul that desperately desires disembodiment. I watch him shift his weight back and forth like a nervous child as the voice in my ear asks very grave things like is he armed/is he dangerous/is he intoxicated, and I say no he is armed only with a water bottle and despair. I ask him how he is, and he tells me he is not good and a moment later he is loaded into a candy apple red ambulance. I see his wide eyes looking up at the sky out the back window from his stretcher as the ambulance pulls away and I reflexively look up the same sky, finally feeling his pain join with my own. Our pain sinks like stone in my heart as I remember that verse, the one from Hebrews that says be not forgetful to entertain strangers for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
This is so honest, heartbreaking, and beautiful, Keith. I love the image of you looking up at the same sky as the ambulance pulls away. This makes me think so much of a poem that I got to see Andrea Gibson perform last night (!!!!!!). Here's an old performance of it - https://andreagibson.org/living-proof
Wow, what a shitty day, Rebekah! Seriously though, what are the odds of a two-fer of public pooping in a single day?? Love the play on Meagher and the juxtaposition of bigness and smallness.
Rebekah, I swear this is the funniest poem I have ever read. Billy Collins will stand and applaud when he reads this! Somehow, you take the most basic of body functions and a bizarre surge of browness, and make a treasure of it!
I love this A. The incredible and beautiful audacity of children! One of the things I miss most from my last interim assignment at a church is the school that was there and the daily exclamations and questions of the kid saying "are you Abraham Lincoln? or "why is your tummy bigger than mine?" and "who is your favorite super hero? Mine is Spider Man and I know where he lives." and the hugs! It was hard to have a bad day with the merry pranksters and joy mongers around!
Wow! Quite the juxtaposition of prompts!! I love those thoughts about realizing how precious those around us are. Life is a miracle, plain and simple, and each person holds value that we can’t comprehend. I treasure this group and recognize the gift that it is.
Thanks, and these weird synchronicity have been happening so much lately - I guess it’s the big collective unconscious (sic). Your poem is great. - Strange Angel
She was 7 or 8, I guess,
dressed in full wonder woman regalia and a scary neon green wig that probably glowed in the dark,
perched motionless in a small white lawn chair behind one of those wooden tv trays that she had herself placed off to the side
of her mom's halloween yard sale.
one silver plastic serving dish sat on the tray, piled high with her handiwork, 3 white packing peanuts shoved into a snack size zip lok bag. Dozens of them.
I was finally jolted out of my stunned wtf haze
by a way too husky voice
coming unseen from behind that pair of probably mom's huge dark sunglasses:
"ghost poop - one dollar"
I slowly slipped a 5 in her jar and quickly moon walked my ass out of there, finally able to breathe.
Haha, this is marvelous - I'm so glad you made it out safely! Did you collect the ghost poop you purchased or just leave it behind?
Took nothing, counting on the 5 as voodoo insurance.
Did notice her jar was pretty full.
"quickly moon walked my ass out of there" - beating your retreat in Jacksonian style :))
"Stunned wtf haze" -- perfect for this kooky scene!
What a shame you didn't get to take your souvenir ghost poop with you. This memory is worth its weight, though.
Thank you Lisa, for a splendid poem and two choices for prompts! I went with stranger, as one of my great and simple joys is meeting new folks and striking up conversations. Some begin long friendships, others are one time events. No matter, thay all help light my way.
San Diego Afternoon
^
It began with a smoothie and a smile,
me deciding what to order after
a long bike ride.
The smoothie designed to hold me over
while I pondered the menu board.
^
My hesitation and indecision
led to conversation,
about best sandwiches,
college classes,
fields of study,
hopes for the future,
how it feels
to live where sunshine
awakens most every day.
^
Eating alone at my table,
lost in thoughts of home,
of bike trips, the couple
about to be married,
endings and beginnings.
The once-stranger barista,
now new friend,
comes over, smiles and says
“may I pray for you?”
My inner protector screamed “no!”
But the sincerity and her smile
opened my heart.
Intentional acts of kindness
can do that.
^
A simple gentle prayer
for safe journey,
peaceful existence,
joy and loving kindness.
Prayer culminates with “Amen”
a gracious smile
and “God bless you.”
^
We never exchanged names,
and its been 10 years
since that sunny May day
when a kind and gracious stranger
felt my lonely heart
and said
“I see you.”
So beautiful - those moments of really being seen by a stranger mean so much, and you show this so well!
Thank you Lisa! I am trying to think of a good antonym and synonyms for “.stranger.” Just being unfamiliar does not make someone else strange! And, some people I know all too well seem, ahem, stranger than fiction!
A beautiful intersection, Larry...expressed beautifully, too.
Thank you Keith.
What a beautiful moment you captured here.
Thank you A. These moments stay wth me.
Your poop angel got me to thinking about a very different kind of encounter I had with an angel of sorts the summer before last that has definitely stayed with me and was basically clamoring to be shared when I saw the prompt (thank you Lisa, for all the imagination you put into these incredible prompts). I felt called to write this as a prose poem for some reason, maybe to reflect the density and intensity of the encounter. TRIGGER WARNING, the encounter involves the mention of suicide. Whew. Okay, here it is.
*
On an otherwise ordinary Sunday in August, he manifests through the trees in a halo of sunlight, skin so pale it is translucent and blue, his pajamas blue too and wet where they meet his muddy slippers on the forest floor. "Hello," he says, "Hellohellohello???" I spin around to retreat, but he won’t relent, and I cannot rewind, rewrite nor circumvent this scene so instead I crack like an acorn under the pressure of his next words which are "Can you help me?" Inexplicably, it’s neither yes nor no that spill from my mouth but the much more open-ended "What’s going on?" and I can hear these words sopping with impatience that pools in the space between us, but not for long, because just like that, he drops his answer, and it splashes all the impatience right out of the question. "Yeah," he says, "I want to kill myself and I’ve been hunting for the right poisonous mushrooms to do just that, but I can’t find them." I do not want to know this/I do not want to help/I do not want to have my sunny Sunday morning walk hijacked by a despondent soul/I am not feeling compassion, but irritation and I do not know how to respond to this anguished apparition. I consider the options and wonder if you should ask a suicidal man in his pajamas for consent before calling for help but of course you do when some bit of grace puts you back in your body and reminds you that he is a human being like you and when that same grace also reminds you that the police are not always the best or only option when one needs help in not killing themself. So, I ask his consent and he, unlike me, has access to his yes. Now grace moves my fingers across the numbers 911 on the touch screen and I am in another surreal conversation with a different stranger, their disembodied voice in my ear as I keep my eyes on this soul that desperately desires disembodiment. I watch him shift his weight back and forth like a nervous child as the voice in my ear asks very grave things like is he armed/is he dangerous/is he intoxicated, and I say no he is armed only with a water bottle and despair. I ask him how he is, and he tells me he is not good and a moment later he is loaded into a candy apple red ambulance. I see his wide eyes looking up at the sky out the back window from his stretcher as the ambulance pulls away and I reflexively look up the same sky, finally feeling his pain join with my own. Our pain sinks like stone in my heart as I remember that verse, the one from Hebrews that says be not forgetful to entertain strangers for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
This is so honest, heartbreaking, and beautiful, Keith. I love the image of you looking up at the same sky as the ambulance pulls away. This makes me think so much of a poem that I got to see Andrea Gibson perform last night (!!!!!!). Here's an old performance of it - https://andreagibson.org/living-proof
Thank you, friend. And thanks for sharing the link to Andrea Gibson performing their powerful poem. <3
Ohhhhh Keith. So beautiful. Thank you for this.
Thank you, Rebekah <3
Oh my goodness. No words. ❤️
This is powerful, Keith. It has a remarkable depth and is compelling and riveting. Bless for your kindness and wisdom.
Thank you, Larry. <3
Oh, I'm so glad I came back for this one today. This is so powerful, Keith.
Thanks for circling back, A. <3
I had way too much fun with this prompt! Thank you for excellent, though septic, start to my day.
.
I once saw an old rancher-type
squatting roadside in Meagher County,
pronounced mar,
under the biggest sky of a state
known for bigness, and skies.
His truck, though adequate,
was not enough to block the view.
.
It meant nothing at the time,
it was just a quirky thing to see
on my honeymoon.
.
But two hours later,
across the green at a city park,
I glimpsed a young Trent Reznor-type
shitting up against a tree.
.
Decades of hindsight
(with no additional
hind sightings)
have shed no light on
that one brown day.
.
Did turds Meagher my marriage?
Did marriage Meagher my life?
.
The old rancher has surely
gone to sky,
and Trent Reznor to domesticity.
In my new state I cherish
smallness,
.
where the ground is
teeming with signs,
where even the most meager
poo gets me
closer to God.
Omg you made me snort with laughter in the grocery store checkout line! “On my honeymoon” with the line break before it was just too good.
Wow, what a shitty day, Rebekah! Seriously though, what are the odds of a two-fer of public pooping in a single day?? Love the play on Meagher and the juxtaposition of bigness and smallness.
This is amazing. The play on Meagher/mar/meager is so good.
Rebekah, I swear this is the funniest poem I have ever read. Billy Collins will stand and applaud when he reads this! Somehow, you take the most basic of body functions and a bizarre surge of browness, and make a treasure of it!
😂😂😂
I love this, Lisa! Part of me wanted to write about shit, but the stranger prompt is what spoke to me today. Alas.
My youngest will run up
to a stranger, no slowing
or hesitation, throwing
.
his arms around their legs,
all the while grinning,
before continuing on
.
with his day; this is the way
I want to embrace the world,
open-armed with a smile
.
on my face, unhesitatingly
sure that I will be embraced
in kind, however surprising
.
it may be, to have a stranger
approach you so intimately,
as you travel on your way.
So lovely. I’ve had random little kids I don’t know run up and hug me a few times, and their parents always apologize, but it feels to me like a gift!
I love this A. The incredible and beautiful audacity of children! One of the things I miss most from my last interim assignment at a church is the school that was there and the daily exclamations and questions of the kid saying "are you Abraham Lincoln? or "why is your tummy bigger than mine?" and "who is your favorite super hero? Mine is Spider Man and I know where he lives." and the hugs! It was hard to have a bad day with the merry pranksters and joy mongers around!
What a sweet visual. Mine were always rude and standoffish like me lol. I’m kidding. Well kind of.
The poem is beautiful and so is the image of your toddler's openness. <3
Wow! Quite the juxtaposition of prompts!! I love those thoughts about realizing how precious those around us are. Life is a miracle, plain and simple, and each person holds value that we can’t comprehend. I treasure this group and recognize the gift that it is.
I feel the same way! I'm so grateful for this community.
Ahhh, the kindness of strangers. Or the burden of shit. Such a toss up.
Or the burden of strangers kindly meant bullshit? 😂
This morning, before I read your cool angel poem I wrote one about dog poop, believe it or not, and posted it. Must be in the air. Life is strange.
That’s amazing! Plus your name is Angel. I love these synchronicities. I just read your poem on your substack, and it’s really fun!
Thanks, and these weird synchronicity have been happening so much lately - I guess it’s the big collective unconscious (sic). Your poem is great. - Strange Angel
I actually almost posted a poem about synchronicities instead! 😂
Wrote one in ‘22 on Baader-Meinhof phenomenon - synchronicity. Maybe I’ll post it one day
Please do!
So you are not an Angel. Sure of that?
Courageously shared. Keep going brave soul...
R💚
Even shit can be beautiful
.
Walking the dog down our regular cul-de-sac
something white was waiting on the fence.
.
Peeking to make sure no one would mind
or feel violated by my picture taking
.
I snapped a photo of a blank pale drop
suspended and dried in a forever drip
.
birdshit in slow motion.
What a world.