Doctor's Prescription

"I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me. They were delicious, so sweet and so cold"
"So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater, beside the white chickens."

You said, “Not ideas,
but in things.”
Like wet farm tools,
or the last plum,
or white chickens pecking at the dirt,
or
shards of my teacup
on a wooden floor
in a lake of amber tea.

Jeff Peeples by Peter Gabbert

Jeff Peeples, a beast, indulges Earl Grey.
His friend of many years is now the staple of his day.
He cannot leave the house without his favorite pick-me-up.
He typically uses a mug, but today he uses a cup.
I feel compelled to reference the awesome Aaron Nix
who, just like Peeps in college, doth pick up many chicks.
His rugged handsome features can stop you in your tracks
Unless he's had too much tea to drink--a single cup is his max.
Like leaves in the fall, admired by all, his charm is that of a poet.
Sarcastic is he, unhappy with me, but scared is he to show it.
Underneath the layers, all the years lost to sadness
He's really just an innocent boy, a victim of the madness.
His psychological break-downs are really just a cover.
His cheeks are turning red because I love him like a brother.

by Peter Gabbert 9-05-09

Moving On

There are no metaphors left for death.
The butterfly emerging from the chrysalis,
the carriage driver,
the journey across a river
whatever its name
are hollow by now.
One would think that
an experience that feels so new
to all of us
from Adam
to David
to me
would birth in us words that could capture the pain.

This is the hard part:
the final kiss from the door of the house,
a goodbye to a tenant who would never
come back even if given the chance.
Only a final glance as if to say,
"I'll go on ahead.
You come later."

Oh, glorious risen Christ,
Defeator of this thing we see too often as an end,
give final grace.
You who knows the the stains of weeping
simply, quietly, hold us now.

For Meaghan and Dylan

Wedding Blessing

This is a blessing
on all the forgotten days,
the normal days,
the Tuesday in January days
when nothing is really happening and
there is nothing springing eternal.

This is a blessing
on all the angry words,
the “you’re just like your parents” threats,
the fleeting “I should have never done this” doubts,
the fear he will never understand her,
and the horror when she does him.

This is a blessing
on the bad breath moments,
the haircut mistakes,
on the time when her hips grow as quickly as his belly,
when hair recedes or relocates,
when the back is stooped and the grasp shaky.

This is a blessing
on the “we can’t afford that” moments,
the loss of money or pride,
the denial of self
that doesn’t feel like denial when the two are one,
the nights when holding is the only touch desired.

This is a blessing
on the weeping so strong
it shakes the body
and matches to the beat of the heart
of the one you are cradling,
on the fever at midnight and the glimpse of final goodbyes.

There is much to be treasured in romance
and the candlelight specks in sparkling eyes,
but this blessing is on the deepest roots
that burrow far below a kiss
through sickness, sin, and madness
to the nurturing of tears.

The Root

“How long have you battled with your
mental health?”
I had to laugh at first.
Battle with it?
I really just surrendered.
But I thought.
My brother died.
After that.
My grandfather died.
After that.
My mother died.
After that.

I remembered.

I first went crazy when a group of Christians
brought me and another teacher
into a room at a church
to listen to complaints
about the books we had their children read.

“Wicked,” “Perverse”
“Corrupt children”
They tied us to our chairs with their accusations.
The words,when sprayed on us by a pastor,
were acidic, eating through the paper of our diplomas.
But we sat still in the undercurrent.
Words were kidnapped
from pages
and raped before our faces.
I could see tears puddle in my colleague’s eyes.
But we had been told not to defend ourselves.
To stay quiet.
If we just stayed quiet, it would go away.

We sat silent.
And something in me was murdered that day.

“Am I this evil?”
I couldn’t help but ask myself.
I loved them.
I just wanted them to learn.

I have sinned.
Oh, I have sinned,
but that sin is not my sin.

"They eat each other here,"
I heard the whisper bouncing off sterile walls,
the sacred walls of orthodoxy and contempt,
and I thought they meant something like the Lord's Supper
or the Eucharist, but that wouldn't be right--not eat each other, that would be eat Him--
but I distinctly heard "each other," and I'm not even sure who whispered it;
it just came in my head.

Cannibalism from Spanish Canibalis,
name (as recorded by Christopher Columbus)
of the allegedly cannibalistic Caribs of Cuba and Haiti.
Oral Sadism
Vultures feed on the dead,but God's children feed on the living.

This is the answer,
the secret I hide inside me.
This is why I sometimes break down in tears for no reason.
Why I sometimes fly apart.
Why I wake up sweating in panic at 3 a.m.
Why I run from conflict whenever I can.
Why I desperately want to be loved.
Why I trust few persons
but God.