Jeff McCallum

She sat a long, long while,

Long, long tresses tumbling down

across her shoulders,

Flowing to and touching, almost,

the seat of her chair.

She sat a long, long while,

Tears

or the beginnings of tears reached

from soul to heart to sad deep eyes,

Traced her youthful cheek reaching

the chin and overflowing.

All of twelve, nine, eleven or

Almost fourteen she cried in silence,

Perhaps a little fearful thinking;

"It could be me"

Recalling the brave smile on the thin face with the barren skull,

The child of eight or nine,

The mother of two or three or

Someone she knew quite well braving the ravishment of chemo;

Wishing it was not,

Praying it would not be her,

Deciding to make a difference.

And then,

Then she cut and snipped the locks cascading down,

Cut and cried, cried and cut

and gave her hair to birds and beaches,

Dolphins,

The ocean.

Pictured her oil soaked hair burning to save the whales,

cure a different cancer

As it fell silent to the floor,

Harvesting a fruit her lifetime in the making.

                                                   Logo Wear

We know,

In no uncertain terms,

Who exactly is bringing us the Super Bowl, the Olympics,

Our favorite soap opera

And speaking of soap operas;

Why don’t we know who exactly is bring us health care

Or choosing not to,

An end to war,

Or a new conflict,

The latest bail out

Or opposing redistribution of wealth?

Since of the people, by the people and for the people

Has kinda slid by the board,

Why not logo wear for politicians,

Like NASCAR regalia or the uniforms of European soccer clubs?

Senator so and so wearing a jacket replete with sponsors;

The really huge campaign contributors in florescent orange

Large across their backs or running down the lapel,

Their limousines covered with powered by Exxon or Viagra;

Labor affiliation, if applicable, on the hood or the trunk,

Minor contributors on the fenders and bumpers,

The name plaque in the House or on the office door loudly proclaiming

Congress person such and such “Proudly bought for you by…”

Hats,

Providing additional room for sponsorship,

may well be back in vogue.

Each bill of course would have a sponsor;

Not the politician walking it through the process,

But the corporation which cares the most about the resulting law;

“You Name the Bill” brought to you by big business, big labor,

big anything that really matters, really has an agenda,

really runs the government, really controls our lives.

Won’t life be simpler with the truth on the table;

Every political ad “proudly presented”

not by Citizens Concerned for the Environment,

But Amalgamated Mining,

“Official sponsor of coal mining state politicians”

The real sponsor of the of the PAC, real money behind the ad,

The real concerned citizen

And darn proud of it!

In Search of Hero I Can Believe In

It can not be true that there are wars without heroes.

I assume this recalling newsreels at the movies,

Movies,

Poems like Flanders Field,

The terrible history of wars, almost any one,

Though the one we call WW II seems to cover the hero theme best;

Yet stumble when a RSD cripples a citizen soldier who would have been hero,

Given the opportunity,

Or already was one to their family,

Women and children comprise the death toll of a suicide bombing

In the market place square,

A drone launched missile lands on a farm house

As the family prepares for the evening meal,

A doctor, following the dictates of the law and his conscious, is assassinated

By a terrorist whose rhetoric resemble that of the Taliban,

Clothing and language that of my neighbor.

Did you cry at Rwanda?

I did.

Did you cry out at Kent State?

I did.

Blue and grey, black and white,

Israeli and Palestinian,

Hindi and Muslim,

Egyptian and Gaza citizen,

An endless litany of causes and counter causes,

Rights, wrongs,

Claims and counter claims,

Action and reaction.

Did anyone write an ode to the Tamil Tigers?

I did not.

The cares and causes of unnamed and uncounted counter revolutionaries

Seem documented only by the death of the innocent,

The suffering of children,

Rapes and mutilations,

Starvation in refuge camps just across the border

From somewhere unfit for people of a certain persuasion

And in a tiny theatre three flights up,

Just off off Broadway.

Have you seen the play?

I have.

There are several different endings,

Unlikely heroes,

Tears and irony abound.

Something for everyone.

I don’t want a Health Care Bill anymore.

Oh, I did,

You may have,

But what are we getting?

Apparently this Gordian knot is too swift a moving target

For the sword of reason to succeed,

Even coupled with the shield of compassion,

Or under its guise.

Compassion you say, surprised

at the largess of the insurance industry,

After all,

Look how they treated your brother’s condition,

Or (you fill in the blanks)

And the Pharmas, only too happy to charge $1,500 a month

For a life changing shot or pill,

To defray the enormous expense of marketing.

Check that; research.

By the time the prenuptials are completed

What and why are we marrying?

Have tried divorcing yourself from the government?

My goodness me,

Nearly impossible,

And with the new paper pushing jobs they’re hell bent on creating,

Rules and exceptions created to satisfying god or her brother,

(Strange in a country banning Christmas trees in the County Courthouse)

Does a poor doctor stand a chance?

By the time they are done

Poor in each sense of the word will come into play.

You and I,

We have a snowballs chance as they say,

That the union of big business and government

Creates a sword that cuts more than cruelly.

Would you trust your surgeon with that scalpel?

For those interested in history or current events, I received six more months of the cancer all clear. My head and neck passed the MRI with flying colors, both lungs were stable according to the CAT scan; blood work, that cursed camera down my nasal passage as well as various hands on examinations all failed to find a flaw in the results. I remain among the “fortunate” as several physicians put it. Me, I prefer the “blessed”, though I often joke that god hates me (or you) so she chose to have me stay and either you or I will suffer for it.

Parotid surgery, lymph node removal, a snip of the tongue here and there followed a few years latter by cancer taking a tour first of the right lung and then the left and here I am, three major operations, two minor procedures and six years latter here I sit. My cancer, perhaps being ecologically aware of the effects on the environment of deforestation, has decided it quite enjoys vacationing in my lungs and is making as small a foot print as possible.

I have tried repeatedly to thank those who surround me with their care and love, especially the caregivers, to encourage those who fear or face bravely the diagnosis they receive, those friends and family who remain positive and steadfast in their support of me and others in their lives who battle a similar enemy; I hope my message has been positive and clear; thank you and bless you all. Modern medicine is amazing, producing miracles and “good fortune” at an impressive rate, there is however something more, something difficult to name exactly, an ingredient for success so crucial to the battle plan.

Perhaps John Wright, MD puts it best in a poem from his “The Beginning of Love” collection, self published in 2005.

THERAPY

for Phillip

You attribute my recovery
to nortriptyline—
its effect on neurotransmitters,
on the amygdala.

You barely nod toward your worth—
insisting on blood levels,
on a therapeutic dose.

While I credit half our success
to the pear tree blossoming white
beyond your left shoulder,

to the wisteria—
its pink flowers hanging
lush and fragrant
over the portico,

to the warmth of your hand.

What love it takes