The Beginning of the End?

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My last post appeared here exactly one month and one day a year ago. The poem I wrote on that day pretty much describes what this past year has been like, filled with dental difficulties, lower back and joint pain, worsening my of hiatal hernia and GERD, and struggling with such existential issues as what the hell is the point of my being here at all at age 86.

Complicating my struggles even further is the fact that I fractured my right ankle badly four months ago, resulting in three separate surgeries and bouts in and out of rehab.

Currently, I am wearing one of those Star Wars-looking orthopedic boots on my right leg and a lift contraption on my right shoe to level out the length of my legs to enable walking. Yeah, right. It’s like trying to walk with a shoe box on each foot. So I have to use a walker to keep upright.

So, I have spent the past for months pretty much homebound with my foot elevated and my daughter taking on the exhausting role of caregiver — giving me my meals, my meds, and whatever access to the outside world that I need to have, including trips to the doctors and careful forays onto the deck in the backyard (weather permitting).

I can’t help looking at this as the beginning of the end, because from now on, it’s only going to be one thing after the other, as my assorted healers keep track of my chronic kidney disease, the damage to my digestive system, and the need for pain management of my back and knee.

In the past, I never thought about how long I might live, since my life was always filled with distractions from hard realities — fun hobbies, good friends, and variety of other interests. Now I often think about dying — when, how, why — and whether I’ll ever again have a compelling reason to keep the end at bay.

Right now, it’s like I barely exist on any kind of meaningful level.

Back in the old Blogger days, many of those folks made the point that blogging was a way to write themselves into existence.

So here I am, again, attempting to write myself back into existence, trying to find a point to it all, after all. Hoping to find a desire for desire.

The Exile of Age

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We take comfort where we can —
the cuddle of a soft chair that rocks;
rich chocolate, ripe berries
on tongues hungry for savor;
a healer’s hands on aches holding
lost assurances of potency and privilege.

Age sucks from our days the granted
pleasures of the unknowing young,
whose dreams of hope and promise
bring fervor and spice to their days.

Instead, our days task us with
the release of expectations,
tbe realities of dispiriting limits,
leaving our nights to wrestle with
unexpected regrets and
pointless Escher dreams.

Congressional Democrats Are Trying

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I know that so many of us are wondering why the Democrats in Congress are not fighting back against Trump’s authoritarian manipulations. A post today by Heather Cox Richardson in her Letters from an American gives us some insight about just how hard they really are trying in the ways that they have available.

Today was a rough day for administration officials on Capitol Hill as Senate committees held hearings on the 2026 budget requests for the Department of Homeland Security, the Department of Health and Human Services, and the Department of State. The Senate Finance Committee also held a hearing for Trump’s nominee to be Commissioner of Internal Revenue, former Missouri representative William “Billy” Long. Democrats came prepared and demanded answers that the department secretaries and nominee were either unable or unwilling to give…Administration officials today seemed to illustrate their utter disregard for the work their jobs require and their refusal to govern for Americans. Instead, they seem to see their offices as ways to get access to large amounts of money and power they can use to impose their will on the country.

Here are some excerpts from Richardson’s piece:

Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem was testifying before the Senate Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee about the Department of Homeland Security’s budget for fiscal year 2026…“Habeas corpus is a constitutional right that the president has to be able to remove people from this country,” Noem said. Hassan corrected her: “Habeas corpus is the legal principle that requires that the government provide a public reason for detaining and imprisoning people…Noem’s habit in these hearings is simply to ignore questions and to attack, and she tried that with Hassan, suggesting that the president has the right to suspend habeas corpus if circumstances require it… The Constitution permits Congress to suspend habeas corpus; not the president.

Over in the Appropriations Subcommittee on Departments of Labor, Health and Human Services, and Education, and Related Agencies, things didn’t go much better…Health and Human Services secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. exploded when Senator Patti Murray (D-WA) asked him whose decision it was to withhold childcare and development block grant funding…When she tried to get him back on track, he continued to talk over her, accusing her of “presiding over the destruction of the health of the American people” and of not doing her job. Murray repeatedly tried to recall him to appropriate behavior, finally appealing to the Republican chair of the committee, who asked Kennedy to stop…When Murray repeated her question, he simply said the decision was made “by my department.” While he refused to take responsibility for the cuts himself, Murray did get him to admit that the department has blocked billions of dollars in federal child care funding.

Democrats on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee took Secretary of State Marco Rubio to task for abandoning the principles they believed he held when they voted to confirm him…When Van Hollen told Rubio he regretted voting to confirm him as secretary of state, Rubio retorted: “Your regret for voting for me confirms I’m doing a good job.”

If Republican lawmakers didn’t seem up to their jobs today, neither did the president. He announced a “Golden Dome” missile shield defense system—a U.S. version of Israel’s “Iron Dome”—that he claims will be operational in 3 years and cost $175 billion. Experts say it is not yet possible to construct such a defense system for intercontinental ballistic missiles and that such a project could cost as much as $542 billion…Such a system would likely benefit at least one person: it would depend on thousands of satellites, a requirement that seems likely to benefit billionaire Elon Musk’s SpaceX.

It’s not that the Democrats are not using every means Constitutionally available to them to try to stop Trump’s coup; it’s rather than the Republicans are ignoring the Constitution and doing their worst. This is the stuff revolution is made of.

Another one bites the dust.

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The other day I was thinking about some of the fun adventures I had in my younger days and the partners with whom I shared them.

An exceptional one was a three-day camping trip in the Adirondacks when I was 40 years old. A born and bred city girl, I had never been camping in my life, and this trip included portaging among three lakes and camping out under the stars. It was in June, and the mayflies were out in abundance.

There were six of us — three couples — the guys all Adirondack guides, expert in managing the challenges of such a camping trip. It was their tradition to each bring a date to their annual excursion, and it was their ritual to have one night when the guys wore ties and the females wore skirts, and we drank wine while the guys cooked the fish they caught.

While canoeing across the last lake, a storm began to brew, and by the time we made it to shore and a primitive lean-to, we were baragged with hailstones. We all hunkered down, built a fire, drank some more wine, sang some songs, and made the best of our last night. Except for a mayfly bite or too, the adventure was a rousing success.

As I enjoyed the memory, I remembered the name of the guy with whom I camped, and I decided to google him. I turns out he passed away in February.

I decided to check out some of my other romantic (and also dance) partners from over those early years, and all but one have passed away.

In memory of Jerry Passer, who introduced me to the magic of the Adirondacks, I share this poem I wrote back then.

Adirondack Rite

The mountain man lies beside me,
shadow and stone
in this moonlit grove.

Silently we listen for coyotes
howling in the wilderness,
the echo hoots of bears
searching for mates.

He promises to take me where
dark marsh grasses beckon
at the water’s sheltered edge,
where wind-washed scents
of wood smoke and rain breathe
ancient magic into the air,
where a pair of knife-winged hawks
inscribe the clouds with holy forms
and then ignite the sky,

He is silver in the starlight,
in the firelight, a whisper
like the oar’s wake in water.
He turns to give me a name, rooting
my spirit to this sacred place
and buries my sleep under dreams
as potent as the wilderness wind.

ponderings on a typical April day

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NERO FIDDLED; TRUMP GOLFS

History says that the fall of Rome was caused by a number of factors, including internal corruption, trade issues, wars over expanding territories, and incompetent leadership. Legend says that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. History will report that Trump golfed while American democracy collapsed for those very same reasons as Rome’s demise.

BOREDOM
“A desire for desires.” That’s how boredom is referred to in Chapter 8 of Anna Karenina. I can identify with that these days. I wish that there were something that excites and motivates me, that fills me with a desire to create, to imagine, to become involved with. I desire to have a desire. Instead I watch a lot of tv and sleep. And play brain games on my Amazon Fire Tablet, Word Chums with a friend, and Words With Friends with one of my former college profs. But I have no energy. Even getting out for my African Drumming class has become a chore. I keep doing it because it’s the last thing I have that gets me out of the house, despite the lower back pain that makes it hard to carry my drum. I have no more interest in knitting or sewing or any of the crafts in which I engaged for decades. I need an adventure, but I have no idea what that might be. I am bored to the extreme.

ENTROPY
It looks as though this will be the year that parts of my body start falling apart. I just had a thyroid biopsy and will get the results this Friday. My sacroiliitis has flared up again, and so I’m off to the Pain clinic later this month to get re-evaluated so I can get another series of injections. I broke a clasp on my partial denture and have to get a new one, although it never is going to fit perfectly because of the location of my missing teeth. I need new glasses, unless I get my cataracts removed, but I’m not sure I’m up for one more medical procedure. I guess I’ll wait and see what the results of the biopsy are.

ADOLESCENT ANGST
I found this old poem I wrote when I was about fifteen. I guess I was depressed even back then.

I hear the dreary, mournful refrain
Of the steadily falling downpour of rain.
Not the rain of a wild and stormy night,
With furious streaks and flashes of light,
With tormenting winds of passionate force
And eerie outcries from an unknown source.
Not the kind of rain that rises from hell
And holds all the world in its magical spell.
Not the kind of rain that’s so torrid and splendid —
That you still stand in wonder even after its ended.
And still not the rain that’s mellow and mild
As sweet and refreshing as the smile of a child.
Not the shower that calls all of nature to waken
With gentle caresses that leaves all unshaken.
Not the rain that makes every creature feel new.
Not the rain that leaves the world sparkling with dew.
But a gloomy depressing curtain of gray
That covers and hides all the brightness of day —
A shroud of depression, a mist of despair,
A cloak of discouragement, everywhere.

“plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”

Two April Poems

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It is foolish to think you can fool April
with bright balloons and colorful plans,
gatherings of eager hearts.
April still knows snow, disdains
the hopeful smiles of children
who wait in vain for sunny play.
Rain is April’s message, prolonging
the held breath of May, promising
only a fool’s failure to remember.

OTHER APRILS
Tank tops and shorts
on the first warm day of April,
sprawled on the dorm lawn
in adolescent abandon,
air smelling of
baby oil, iodine,
and sweet spring sweat.

Boy child and ball
on the first warm day of April,
laughter on a learning curve
stumbling in wet grass,
air smelling of
new mud, wet pine,
sweet sun after rain.

The Eiffel Tower
on the first warm day of April,
arm locked with arm
among the winds of Paris,
air smelling of
wine, tulips
and a lover’s sweet caress.

Contemplating the dappled shade
on the first warm day of April,
glider swing creaking
its soft lullaby,
air smelling of
lavender, memories,
and sweet seasoned dreams.

Self-Expression at 85

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I’m posting this to submit to this month’s IndieWeb Carnival, which, this month, focuses on “self-expression.”

For the past 24 years, I have been posting on my blog at kalilily.net. These days, at age 85, I am “just an old lady talking to herself” because “when I talk to myself, I tell the truth.” And when I blog, I assert my small existence in the context of an increasingly complex and expanding world.

I began blogging in 2001, when the parameters of my life shrunk to encompass my life as a live-in-caregiver for my mother, who had severe dementia. As my social life diminished in response to her needs, I followed the lead of my son, now blogging at bix.blog, whose presence on the internet introduced me to the leading personal bloggers of the time.

I am a published poet, and my blog gave me the opportunity to share my poetry, as well as to comment on whatever personal or larger issues motivated me to want express my perspectives.

My blog became my online journal, as I chronicled my explorations in using medical marijuana and documented the five days at my mother’s bedside waiting for her to take her last breath.

My blog is the one place I am free to express my opinions, share my experiences, and document major episodes in my life’s journey. Now, at age 85, my outlets for self expression are severely limited. I no longer ballroom dance, which, at one point in my younger years was my main outlet for self expression — along with occasional public readings of my poetry.

Because I was one of the early personal bloggers, I was invited, and I attended, the first Blog Conference at Harvard. Subsequently, I was interviewed by several major newspapers that were chronicling the emergence of blogging communities. All of this helped to reassure me that expressing myself publicly was a worthwhile pursuit.

While my physical world has shrunk, my need to write and assert my existence in this fragile world has not. And so I continue blogging, even if I am only talking to myself.

three poems about things

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I am unpacking some older poems and sprucing them up.

ODE TO OPAL
The opal, they say,
is partly water,
softer than crystal
(though not as clear),
smoother than pearl
(though not as soft),
as fragile as a heart
nearly mended.
Break it and it bleeds —
scattering light
like dreams at dawn.

The opal, the say,
attracts joy, love,
creative spirits
that fire the heart,
sends from its center
the magic of all other stones,
– an irresistible call
to iridescence.

ARTIFACT
There once was a point
to this old lantern
that now only reflects
what light slips through
somber drawn drapes
Once it had a purpose in
repelling night’s dark hand.
Its flickerings lit dim stairwells,
dispelled the haunts of nightmares,
revealed vague truths locked
within shadowy eyes.
Useless in lonely oblivion,
it waits for storms
that devour the sky
and send the world
into frightful corners
of unexpected night.

STILL LIFE WITH LUNCH
I indulge my tongue with baguette and brie
and contemplate a miniature collection
of my life’s best metaphors,
captured in small wooden squares
framed, off-center, in an expanse of
off-white kitchen wall–
spiny shells and chunks of stone
bought or stolen from gritty beaches
and hallowed hillsides;
two miniature totem poles,
stacks of toothy masks eternally
divining and defying;
a ceramic face of serene Kwan Yin,
graceful hands open in eternal
maternal blessing;
a pious, pewter St. Anthony,
haloed, holding the sad Child, and
on the lookout for misplaced keys;
a feather, probably a duck’s
because the wild turkey’s didn’t fit,
and every altar needs a feather;
a brass double dorje, the mate
to the Tibetan bell I ring
in moments of turning
toward thoughts of a frameless future;
and, finally, a crumbling wine bottle cork
on which is printed,
in balky blue ballpoint:
CONUNDRUM.

The Last of the 60s Singer/Songwriters

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Having just seen the Bob Dylan move, A Complete Unknown, I am thinking about all of the great singer/songwriters that came out of the 60s and 70s. Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Kris Kristofferson, Joan Baez, Donovan, Judy Collins… I can go on and on.

Their lyrics were poetry, and they sang them so that we could clearly hear and understand the passion and authenticity behind the words.

I get it that Rap can also be poetry, but it is delivered in a cadence and speed that too often blurs the meaning of some very powerful words and emotions.

Taylor Swift is just about the best contemporary singer/songwriter, and I get why she is so popular. But, again, her lyrics often take second place to the sounds of the instrumentalization, the beat of this generation.

My favorite contemporary singer/songwriter is Don McClean. His song, “Vincent” is pure poetry in both words and delivery.

But my favorite work by a singer/songwriter of 60s, who is still alive, is this one written by Joni Mitchell and sung by Judy Collins.

Both Sides Now
Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and they snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way that you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way
But now it’s just another show
And you leave ’em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away
I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions that I recall
I really don’t know love
I really don’t know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say, “I love you, ” right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way
Oh, but now old friends, they’re acting strange
And they shake their heads and say I’ve changed
Well, something’s lost, but something’s gained
In living every day
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
It’s life’s illusions that I recall
I really don’t know life
I really don’t know life at all

The Downside of Antidepressants

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I have been on and off antidepressants all of my adult life. They do what they are supposed to do. They keep me from feeling the lows. And they also keep me from feeling the highs. The problem is that my creative writing is fueled by those lows and highs.

My late former husband, who also suffered from depression and was a writer, refused to take antidepressants because, he said, “I’m afraid that if my demons leave, my angels will as well.”

And that’s what often happens.

William Wordsworth said, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility”.

Antidepressants tend to neutralize those powerful feelings. I miss those feelings, and my writing has suffered, especially my poetry.

This was inspired, more than twenty years ago, by “..they paved paradise and put in a parking lot..” from Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi.

Revenant

Under a dark moon,
she hunts the land for what
she cannot leave behind:

the scent of marigold
crushed on skin;
the fragile grace
of seedling maples;
the soft acceptance
of lambs ear leaves —

all lost to the dark,
to a place too ruined
for digging.

Tirelessly, she wrestles
the ghosts she has come
to free from the hold
of reluctant stone,

from the evil spell
binding the earth once
worked with the patient
need of her hands.

Held by the moment,
I breathe deeply
the sharp-scented air,
search for signs
of moon in the sky,

pray to find
what has been lost
from her night
and from my own.