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Taping Our Gifts

For Brian Legeose https://brianlageose.blog

Gluing ourselves together for the
Loves of our lives
Out of obligation I’m exposed – borne from those
Deep cracks. We open wide, wider than a canyon
Engulfing everything that walks by
It never saw us there
A gaping hole ready
To swallow
Them whole.
Didn’t they understand
Not looking around we might take them
To a watery grave below?
There’s not enough tape
To repair all our openings
And spaces left in the paper:
Leave clues of what we are
We are gifts
All of us
Flaws and all
Ready to find a mason
To build a brick wall
Prevention for the disease
Passed along when we
Hand out our presents
To the unknowing
Few.

Brain Cancer Diaries the Poetry Episode

www.youtube.com/watch

That link will take you to the Poetry Episode of The Cancer Diaries.

I want to thank Rudy Fischman who, with inoperable brain cancer, uses his talents as a video producer, interviewer and rising star in editing and special effects to give us a guided tour into his life. He spotlights, with humor and his brand of edgy yet polished video blogs, the reality of living with uncertainty as well as the physical and emotional effects of his disease on his entire world including his wife and daughters.

He invites guests along the way and in this episode he invited myself, and two other poets, on of whom died before he could see the final result. Rudy did Ben North justice reading a poem called, “My Father’s Son,” and who’s chap book of 33 poems called 33 Poems is available on Amazon. Oddly the day the video was released my copy arrived, after nearly 3 weeks waiting, on my doorstep.

I admit I look like I just had several radiation treatments, because I did, but he captured my heart on the video and I cannot thank him enough.

Rudeman, you rock.

You can find Rudy on Facebook, Twitter @fschmnn and YouTube under Brain Cancer Diaries, and I highly recommend you subscribe and share amongst the cancer community and outside. In particular, this episode highlights the intersection of writing and cancer and the therapeutic effect that putting our stories out there in whatever format we feel good about brings others into our lives and transforms everyone. That is everyone who reads, listens, watches and learns from us and with us.

The True Story

His polished apple green eyes shone beneath his hat brim

The color of a clear blue sky.

A white shirt covered his chest up to his chin. Queued in line that day

And to tell you now the truth of what I found

While I stood impatient and late

In a restaurant now burned to the ground.

Instead of the usual hello or how you’s

I heard the voices of my ancestors all in harmony

In his message undisguised, I heeded the lifelong call.

From the back he He smiled at me and said, “you’re blessed.”

And then he turned around

Where he looked from the front back to me

And he said these words without speaking.

He looked at me and I thought I’ve seen him

Some familiar faces come calling

Some voices the echoes of all time

And I never saw him again in a crowd

Or alone in my dreams at night.

He stood ahead of me and whispered as

He smiled at me, “you’re blessed.”

“Keep talking and writing. Never come to an end. We are watching over you, we hear your every breath.”

“We know you and you’re blessed by god,”

And I said thank you after he said god blessed you to me

And I repeated his last few words.

“Next!” cried out the counter man

Startling my mind from a state

I felt neither here nor now

He ordered a sweet tea and paid

Then took number 81 and he moved left to wait to be called.

I nod to him he nodded as well, he’d already done his calling.

Ordering now paying for my number 82, racing to wash my hands and back

Yet no time had elapsed: when I returned he was gone.

The man behind the counter called out, “81!”

A family of five all hurried to take their grease stained brown bags.

And I looked for him

A sky blue man

But my memory’s all I own.

His skin was the color of every race

His face was ageless and clean

His clothing impeccable

No creases or wrinkles

In his body or his clothes

His hat sat atop his presence

Like a halo or something above his flawless essence.

He may as well have been carved into marble

By the hand that moves the stars

And he disappeared into the sunlight

Before I could ask what right I have

Why me and not someone else?

I felt undeserving of this day

The Beginning my lifelong gift

To lose every fear I’d known of

The pain of my terminal illness

But the ache in my heart vanished

Along with the smile I saw on his face

He brightly shone

Like the mid day sun

And no one heard his name.

When an angel speaks

A message

To you and you alone

Listen and let doubt melt from Your mind

If someone helps carry you home.

Don’t laugh in the face of the messenger

In a moment I understood

That life on multiple dimensions

Can be known but can’t be seen

And god steps with us in the path we take

Be kind and be loved and give what you know

To the world and receive every dream.

The day will come before we leave

The ones in our lives bereft.

No one is spared who’s born

Of pain or of illness or death

From the moment our minds open

Our eyes begin to close again.

Never waste a messengers gifts

Doubting only brings us to our knees

Not bent in prayer or meditation

But in the to the heartache of our own empty grave.