My grandfather Emmanuel (white shirt) and my great uncle Wilfred (sitting down)…or…The Elders
Shadow of what use to be…or…Use to be
Shadows
Opaque surface rejects light
If the surface is moving
Dancing takes place
Shadows
Lingering in what was
Because the surface has not moved on
Stuck in a vacuum, never ending light
Shadows
The, I of what use to be
Memories of a time
Sillhoutes trapped in the mind
Shadows
The dust of incense
Dying embers within
Collect on the ground
No-where bound
I always cry when a McCalla dies…
Those words were first written in Tio Victor’s piece. I’ve shed many a tear for those who passed on due to illness’ that showed no mercy, was brutal and bent on destruction. It’s one thing when it happens to your parents, tíos, tías and even primos …
But
when it makes an appearance on a sibling
That’s a whole new realm and you can’t help to wonder
When you’ll be next
I don’t cry for the Walsh’s
Except when my father died
The day before his 90th birthday
His spirit visited me and he was angry
Angry for being taken from living
Angry for the last drink not had
Angry for eating his last meal
Angry.
The McCalla I cry for today is my sister Evie
Although technically she is a Walsh
She arrived through a McCalla
And that makes her both
Nicknamed Judy for her JudyGarland eyes
Big brown with the longest lashes
Those eyes required glasses of the strongest kind
To view the world but not life ahead
Judy was whimsical
An artist with the capacity to draw
Images of fantasy and fiction
Prompted by her obsession with romance novels
Artists run in the McCalla family
From photographers to those who draw and painted
So does mental illness.
From those who isolate and those who drink
LGBT slides
Beneath the surface
The ones who never got married, never had a partner
Who live on the West coast away from the East
But
Back to my sister Judy
A life lived
To the fullest?
I will never know
A life lived
Within her means and understanding
Of the world she lived in
Comfortably existing in
I once told my sister I love you and she said she loved me too.
Morning Nature News in Cornwall Connecticut…
6:30am in the morning
I’m sitting outside on a green bench facing the Housatonic River. My intention was to dump my feelings via calligraphy pen unto my journal.
Instead
I decided to listen to the morning news broadcasting in nature.
Birds stationed at multiple locations throughout the 55 acres, report the first segment with chirps and bleeps in various tones and pitch.
“It’s a good day to be alive.”
Starts the morning news.
“Due to the late night rain storm, it’s a perfect morning for good eating on the ground. We have a large selection to choose from. Worms and ants, lady bugs and if you’re in the mood for a challenge, a humming bird was spotted early on.
I’m particularly fond of mosquitos due to their high blood protein content but will have to wait till early evening.” Reporter :Joe Crow
Today’s Weather
“Cooler temperatures predicted for this overcast day with a 50% chance of showers by 7pm.” Reporter: Jane Nimbostratus cloud
*Commercial Break brought to you by the Housatonic River where fly fishing is welcomed as long as you leave behind what landed on your hook*
Neighbourhood watch
“The trees are actively communicating through their deep roots underground and report Tree # 16 is passing into shade and the Turkey Vultures have taking residence in the upper branches. Tune in at 5pm for an update on Tree #16”.
Reporter: Stinky Pine Trees
Sanitation
“The 6:30am sanitation train is running on schedule with no delays. Have a great start to your morning and be sure to tune in to our evening broadcast at 5pm and 11pm.” Reporter: Cyrus Turkey Vulture
For my sister, Evie Marie Sundre
I am…
I am
Ackee and saltfish
don’t like the ackee
I am
codfish fritters
Fried with scallions, onions till golden brown
I am
Plantańos
fried and mushed in Mazola corn oil
I am
arroz con pollo
Saźon, Carolina rice washed 3x, meat falling off the chicken bone
I am
a hot dog
Hebrew national of course with a toasted bun
or wonder bread, toasted
I am
Wise
Potato Chips
geez, onion and garlic, barbeque, plain
I am
Chef Boy Ardee
Let’s not open Pandora’s box
Ravioli, Spaghetti with meatballs
I am
Spam
Fried in corn oil
Served with eggs fried in butter
(Nuff said)
I am
Vienna sausages
heated in the can
served with ketchup and toothpicks
I am
Sounds of Congos
at night in the playground
firecrackers, roasted pig, double-dutch
I am
Puerto Rican Spanglish
loosie cigarettes, The Machétes, The Black Pearls,
whom protected us youngins (forever grateful)
I am
Let fart be free
as it caused the death of poor Mary Lee
I am
Faith moves mountains
You talk too much you worry me to death
Que sera, sera, One less egg to fry
I am
McCalla Brothers
from Scotland, who settled in Jamaica and collected slaves
I am
From those ancestors
who migrated to Honduras
Working the banana plantation
Where my mother Joyce Margarita McCalla was born
And given away to her aunt and brought to Jamaica
I am
The half product
of an Irish man who had a fling with my grandmother
Which produced my father Noel Emmanuel Walsh
Who helped produced me
Nite Swimming…
I’ve said to myself too many times to count
But this time like all the others, I mean it
I’ve hit a wall, hard
And there’s nowhere else to go
My body is warning me
To stop living in fantasy
We are in conflict which I hate
And I usually get my way
If I knew the answer to this
It would have a chance to stop
I can’t find the answer on my own
So, it spreads
Like a dog I’ve been chasing my tail
Spinning round, round and round
And where do I go?
Nowhere
If only I had the right mental pills
To balance out the discombobulation
A “Mothers Little Helper…”
That,
“Would minimize my plight”
Or some non-alcoholic elixir that would change
Copper infused days into a patina
Crafted by oxygen, carbon and water
But, as Kermit says,\
“It’s not easy being green…”
What is there to say?
Playtime is over
I’m tired of the self-inflicted
Emotional Violence
POC…Peeps of Colour…Just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round…
People of colour come in all ranges of skin tone
black, tan, yellow, white, bronze and even the darkest purple
We share the same colour tears and blood and in most cases
the same colour food
As diverse as our colours are
because of it, we lack the
privileges afforded to others
We are harassed, ridiculed,
talked at slowly,
talked at loudly
as if we are ignorant imbeciles from an illiterate island
I miss my mom’s accent but I cannot miss what
I never heard, for her accent to me
sounded like everyone else’s voice
without one
Others heard her accent and treated her
as if she came from a third world country
not from the god forsaken place she was born to
My mother left a developing country
with an eight grade education
for a better life in America
With that education
She worked for a higher learning magazine
With that education
She worked for a major publishing company
With that education
She worked for a Dominican
What I’m trying to say with words
is the same old, same old thang
Don’t judge a book by its’ cover or…
Don’t judge a POC by the colour of their skin
You never know what lingers underneath,
below the surface,
behind closed doors,
safely held close to the heart
Until someone’s
gotta throw shade of the blackest kind at your ignorance self…
Retreat…or Escape to serenity
I am me
when I pack two days ahead
arrange babysitting for the furs
and book my ticket the day of
I am me
arriving at Grand Central
an hour before departure
heading to the lounge
I am me
buying a pretzel
eating mindfully
as I people watch
I am me
time to board the train
window seat
headphones on
I am me
Concrete to green
tracks to wilderness
fast to slow
I am me
destination is known
as the green school bus
waits
I am me
the gates of the Retreat
gives a blessing
releasing the iron bars de mi alma
I am me
suitcase dumped in the foyer
red barn beckons
and I am wrapped in the healing power of the donks.
Threes…
November, January, February
After the death of two high school friends, one from suicide by hanging the other from an aggressive form of cancer, I thought I’d be next.
Lordzt knows mental health (me) and cancer (mom) are two annoying friends I never invited to the dinner table.
Bad things come in threes. If an unfortunate event has already occurred twice, a third is likely to occur.
A recent visit to my PCP led to a rant on the threes.
With a gentle hand placed on my shoulder she advised me not to worry and suggested some books on positivity to read. Positivity? I was too absorbed in the cauldron of hell’s depression!!!
Then…
February arrived and brought the passing of a niece two days shy of her 40th birthday.
Bad things come in threes. If an unfortunate event has already occurred twice, a third is likely to occur.
How do I respond to this news?
First, I found out about her passing almost two weeks after. Her diagnosis is a mystery to me as her mother went along with the Doctors treatment, with questions never asked and avoiding knowing. I guess ignorance was bliss. From what I could gather it sounds like septicemia.
This niece passed, alone in the hospital, drugged up. Her mother collected money for the cremation and returned to life. I don’t know if she cries or mourns as she jokes during our monthly conversations on the phone.
I mourn from afar knowing the niece did not reach her 40th birthday.
Anélemc's Writing 
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