John and Lisa's Blue Skies Blog – Soaring with God

Her infant two
months old, she can’t bear
a fourth week of blue
pills: Prozac prescribed
by OB/GYN. So
she stands at kitchen
sink, stares out window
unseeing, with open pill
bottle at her right hand.

She fills
an old glass, cut
from Arby’s complete zodiac
set, this her Pisces glass
with two fancy blue fish
swimming in a circle, one
up and one down.
The downward moving
fish wins today. One pill
on the tongue, one sip
of water – and then
one pill, one sip, over
and over – such an easy
rhythm after all.

She knows she could
stop, but why? She’s dead
inside already, can’t cry.
Her stomach sits
heavy, full of water
and pills, but she must finish
the task once started.

At last, she holds empty
bottle once filled
with sixty pills. Who would
believe it? Not the ER
nurse, for sure, who swears
he heard sixteen pills.

After NG tube, cold activated
charcoal, a seizure,
unconsciousness,
she wakes in hospital
gown hours later
with urinary catheter
and wonders how
she’s alive. Her ears echo
with “Wake up!” said
somewhere, sometime
maybe in a dream.

Toughest day I ever taught
an exercise class.

Nine. Eleven.
7am Hawaii time,
radio alarm clicks and blares
The World Trade Center has collapsed!

I spring from bed and check
TV where every channel shows
twin towers falling again.
And. Again.

Dim awareness:
Something else seems odd.

I gaze through 7th floor
window. Blue, blue skies empty
over Honolulu International Airport.
Now. Silent.
No jet noise. I wonder
Has this ever happened since
planes came to paradise?
I grab the phone, must know
if work wants me.

My gut clenches at the usual
greeting: It’s a great day
to work out….. Well,
Not. Today.
Come in and teach they say.

I travel near-empty streets, all
bases on lockdown. Find the gym
somber, the receptionist no longer
claiming it’s a great day. Seems the only
fitting action now is to pray.

My studio holds seven students instead
of seventeen. My heart and head seem
empty. I dread the coming pounding
aerobics music. I begin: Let’s have a moment
of silence.

Moments are magic
Minutes are precise
Moments last forever
Minutes are now
Moments are in the mind
Minutes on a wrist watch
Moments are meaningful
Minutes soon pass
Moments are right brain
Minutes are left
Moments are memories
Minutes are forgotten

My poem, “The Cider Mill,” which used to be available online at Every Day Poets:

Autumn air, crisp as apples, warm and yet not –
Every year, the cider visits.

Ah, to stuff plucked fruit
into brown paper bags
and watch machines smash apples
to quench more
than a mortal thirst.

Machines as in monasteries
of my past life, powered
by water carried in wooden tiers – Falling
droplets prick my skin in shaded gardens.

Sweet, ecstatic cider swirls
into my contented cup.