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And Words Are All I Have
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Her Twin, Emma's Wisdom, and the Boss.
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We are here for such a shockingly brief time. So speak your love out loud. Say the kind thing. The compassionate thing. Leave nothing unsaid that comes from your heart. It is where the very best of you resides, where your unique humanity rests. And is found.
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One of many poems the pandemic has given rise to.
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Her twin sisterโs ashes were waiting for her collection
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At a contactless drive through.
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Now in a bag beside her on the front seat
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who had just last week sat in that very seat,
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Beseeching her to change the radio station
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Because she absolutely hated Enya,
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Pulling the visor mirror down to apply
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Her signature Mac Russian Red lipstick.
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Not that anyone will see these, she sighed, rolling her eyes,
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Smacking her lips together playfully,
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Then, suggesting a stop at the Burger King drive thru.
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Cโmon, sweets, Iโm buyin'.
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Who could conceive all that CoVid
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There may be savageries more heinous than this:
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Separating 23 year old twins
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Without allowing for the briefest of goodbyes.
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I want to be Emma when I grow up...
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For all the poets, the writers, who have offered me comfort, a compass, hope...
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Do not assume that she who seeks to comfort you now lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good. Her life may also have much sadness and difficulty, that remains far beyond yours. Were it otherwise, she would never have been able to find these words.
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๐๐๐ง๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ง ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฆ๐ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฏ๐? ๐๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ค ๐๐๐ฅ๐จ๐ฐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ก๐๐๐ซ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ข๐ง๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ฏ๐ข๐๐ฐ ๐จ๐ง ๐๐ง ๐๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐ ๐ฉ๐จ๐๐๐๐ฌ๐ญ ๐จ๐ง ๐๐จ๐ง๐๐๐ฒ, ๐ฐ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ ๐ ๐ญ๐๐ฅ๐ค ๐๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐ฉ๐จ๐๐ญ๐ซ๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐๐๐ง๐ฌ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฆ๐, ๐๐ง๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ซ๐๐ฌ ๐ข๐ญ ๐๐๐ง ๐จ๐๐๐๐ซ ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐จ๐ ๐ฎ๐ฌ.
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"It's essentially a repair shop. If I repair myself maybe I can help repair you too."
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-- Bruce Springsteen talking about the power of music.
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I feel the same way about poetry. It's a repair shop and if it works its own particular magic, it just might help repair you too.
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Yesterday my pulse was barely detectable. The world had slowed along with it.
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The focus ring shifted, obscuring the exact shapes of things.
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The view from my desk now altered, deadened, as if someone had stopped down the exposure.
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I know the drill by now, each time my visitor returns unbidden.
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Nothing if not predictable, nothing if not relentless.
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I know its treachery, its sleight of hand.
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But depression is a shape shifter. A pathological liar.
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It outwits, beats down, casts doubt.
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Scoffs at our hopes, pities our meager defenses.
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Fades all to black and never looks back.
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Its powerless believer, Each and every time.
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Recent Post
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We are left adrift it seems. Dr Laura is too busy plugging window blinds to be taken seriously. And these days Dr. Phil appears a mere dead eyed huckster for his wifeโs line of miraculous subterranean botanicals. Archbishops are led away in handcuffs while princes in island mansions prey upon the under-aged. In search of wisdom we seek โฆ
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Michael O'Donnell didn't return home from the Vietnam War, but his poetry did. Alum Daniel Weiss was so taken by O'Donnell's work that he spent the last decade-plus learning about its author.
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This is from an essay by Bret McCabe, himself a vet, published Spring of 2020.
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Helicopter pilot Michael O'Donnell could hover near the ground for only a short time before returning to the sky. On the afternoon of March 24, 1970, O'Donnell had guided his Huey below the dense foliage of Cambodia's mountainous northeast region to retrieve an eight-man reconnaissance patrol that had been inserted to gain information on the size and movements of enemy forces but encountered gunfire early on. Three days into a planned five-day patrol, they needed to be evacuated.
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O'Donnell, a 24-year-old from suburban Milwaukee, was part of the helicopter rescue mission involving two unarmed transports and four gunships that were dispatched from an airbase in Vietnam's central highlands. After lingering at 1,500 feet, waiting for the recon team to reach the extraction point, one transport had to return to base to refuel. The transport was on its way back when the recon team radioed that it couldn't hold out much longer. O'Donnell dropped his helicopter into a windy canyon and through a small opening in the canopy, lowered his craft to just above the ground. The recon patrol emerged from the jungle with enemy fire trailing after them. It took about four agonizingly long minutes for all eight men to board, a little longer than the average pop song.
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After ascending about 200 feet, O'Donnell radioed to air command, "I've got all eight, I'm coming out," right before his helicopter burst into flames, likely struck by a ground-based rocket. The pilot, his three-man crew, and the recon patrol were officially declared missing in action in 1970. O'Donnell wouldn't be declared dead until February 7, 1978. His remains were discovered in 1995 but not officially identified until February 15, 2001. And on August 16, 2001, he was interred at Arlington National Cemetery, which was created as a final resting place for soldiers on land seized from a plantation owner after the Civil War. O'Donnell left behind his wife, his parents, a sister, his best friend and music partner, and a collection of 19 poems, some of which he included in his letters to friends, discovered in his footlocker after his death.
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One of those 19 retrieved pieces, printed below, O'Donnell had mailed to his friend Marcus Sullivan in 1970. Sullivan served as a combat engineer in Vietnam from 1967 to 1968, and they wrote each other throughout their training and tours. O'Donnell's daily missions transporting the dead and wounded back from the front lines were taking their toll.
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If you are able, save them a place inside of you and save one backward glance when you are leaving for the places they can no longer go.
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Be not ashamed to say you loved them, though you may or may not have always. Take what they have left and what they have taught you with their dying and keep it with your own. And in that time
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when men decide and feel safe to call the war insane, take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.
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Book Sales
The Music of Leaving, my collection of poetry, is available to order.
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Order directly online โ for both Canada and U.S. orders โ from Amazon, Brunswick and Demeter.
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Poetry goes social...
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ย ย ย ย
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