life is lonely:
fill it up.
laugh when you can.
be open to things that scare you.
sing at least once a day.
try to touch at least one being, and be touched.
life is lonely.
it’s ok;
we all know it.
lean into it.
there are times when you need
that space,
that quiet,
that gut-wrenching truth.
out of that wilderness
can come meaning, purpose,
focus, action.
get your fill.
i’m in the guest bedroom,
writing down all the hymns.
i’m guessing at some of the
words; welling up at others:
streams of mercy
never ceasing.
there’s a built-in happiness
in the notes, the chords;
the memory of fingers
flying over piano keys.
i am wooden wind chimes
in a metal world.
the way you hold a
pencil, the way you bend and tilt
toward what is important, toward
what moves you and yet holds
you in stilled animation,
wonder, desire;
the way your face opens
to the widest smile, the
bluest
laugh, like music
giving in. love to you and
the granular tender-
ness in your eyes, on your
finger tips, between the universe
of your lips, the tension of your sighs. this
kind of love has no name; it is just a
grate ful ness to be in the
same world with you.
there are missing pages in my
diary from when you died.
it was not a time for growing
poetry; all the words went in-
to the eulogy—which made every
thing else seem meaningless: even
music felt foreign and wrong. i
questioned every thing—my job,
my place in the family, my space
in the world. all my energy went
into finding documents, finding
pictures, trying to find you in the
boxes and piles of audio cassettes,
ledgers, sewing kits, coffee mugs.
it wasn’t until much later that the
words began to knit together; they
were in my head all along—but
needed to be brought to cohesion.
there’s a reason this time remains in
my mind: it is a hunt, a meditation, a
docking station for the spirit. i must
remember the things that god can do.
i must remember that music is for
feeling, and poetry is for eating.
i must remember the empty pages
from when you died, with love.
when you arrive at the perfect piece,
it sits in your mouth like a kiss,
a deliciousness you wish you could
hold onto forever. sometimes i
wait at the bus stop, and the big
whoosh lumbers up, and i wave
it away. i’m waiting, i say, but not
for the bus. for what, i cannot
articulate; but when it comes, it’s
like going back through the tunnel
and finding the seed from which
you sprang, and everything else
just falls away, and the song you sang
as a child rings like a bell in its wake.
the mamas bring the
music and the light,
stroking sweet-
ness into being,
inoculating against
the self-made man.
every where you look
is a circuit board
waiting for
lightning.
the stars are
still inebriated.
i keep my hands
at 10 and 2
as i measure
you, ride
your war-
torn body
past the banyans
into the sunrise.
the thought of you coming into this world
makes me smile. imagining the look on your
mother’s face as she gazed on you for the
first time is almost too much to take.
something amazing passed into the world that day:
it made people stop and turn and go out of their way
to hold, to touch, to be in that blanket of time
and openly yearn for a bigger blanket, more say.
all these years later, you are still making people
stop and listen and reach and want and love.
i feel honored to be a tiny part of that play; if all
the world’s a stage, you make it one hell of a show.
it’s not an easy space to fill; it’s difficult to face most days.
but you, just by being uniquely you, inspire us deep from the roots:
to show up, to fuck up, to get up, to laugh, to rock, to create,
to live, to love, to mock, to tell our story, to be real, to celebrate.
Thank you, Tommy, for being in the world.
Happy birthday with much love.
Sketches of Tommy Joe Ratliff by Olivia Santiago
the first time you
play out the skele-
ton of a song, you
hear the flesh be-
coming; you
dress the beautiful
bones like a doll. the
rush of blood and
breath comes last, once
it’s all assembled and
cast into the world
for her to sing along.
then, it will never be the
same; then, it will never
sound like that very first
time. your job is to
create, to not think past
that, to let it all happen, to
feel the full measure; whole-
note stomping in—then, out.
for tjr: today and every day
it happened while i wasn’t looking;
it happened while i was in pretty deep—
trying to climb up and out from that steep
dark that meets me even in my sleep.
but this time, you. you were there, too,
saying, yeah, i feel it; it’s true—
but, it will pass. hold on, like the last time;
hold on, and it will lose its power,
and you will
rise.
it means every thing to have another
being there to say – i’m here –
and not
much else.
it means every thing to have
a hand reaching out, an ear opening,
a heart-mind waiting to
wrap itself around you.
even across the creeping
light-years, miles, blues, trials:
we are all connected
and that has made all the difference.
Painting of Tommy Joe Ratliff by Olivia Santiago
To be, or not to be: that is the question…
To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come…
a new day is here, tiny bits of
fireflies from last night still caught in
my mind, still flitting, nudging at my
hands and feet and eyes, and saying:
wake up! listen to the clear sky all
around you; gaze up and out into
what is waiting to finally give you
every thing you need.
some thing is opening, some thing is
shift-dancing, some thing is reaching out
to take my hand and bring me into a
different light: where every thing is possible;
where i am allowed to feel this bright joy—
even layered on top of the grief and fear and
guilt and dark nights. it is all beautiful, because
it is all my life. and it all goes back to the light.
i can begin to see now where i was,
where i came up and out from,
where i was headed, and how
i was saved from myself.
as i wipe the sleep from my life, from this
spinning bundle of neurons harnessed now
only to make me stronger, i need only ask:
where do i want to go next?
i already know the time is short.
i already know what it is to love and to lose.
i already know what it is to not love.
i already know it’s time to stop looking back.
i am letting myself reach forward for the things
i do not yet know; for the things waiting at the gate;
for the dream-things chomping at the bit to
take off in any glorious direction i choose.
i am ready to dig my heels in for what i want,
for what i am, for what i have to give—
even if i have to rip it up and out of my-
self from deep down inside my own grit.
my time has come. i am giddy,
gathering myself behind the
sweep of the red curtain, inside
this sonic celebration of being.
Inspired by “Perchance to Dream” by Tommy Joe Ratliff
All of his music just sings. Go have a listen: https://soundcloud.com/tommyjoeratliff
lunachik 