Naked Breathers


This morning I sat

Beneath the stars

Almost naked 


Winter

Cold 

Very Cold


Surrounded by molecules of hot hydrogen and oxygen 

Keeping me breathing 

In the Very Cold


Wondering as I breathe 

About that which gives me breath


Then I wonder about some of those who also breathe

The angry breathers


Why are they angry

I only wonder


Billions of naked breathers wonder

Some conclude and get angry at those who wonder


Billions of naked breathers

Some wonder

Some angry

Some fear


Why do they fear

Why do I fear


I only wonder


© Ruby Neumann





Poet's Note  (Written December 15, 2021) 


Sitting in my hot tub this morning in an almost -30 temperature, I wondered.  And in my wondering I felt the judgement of others on me as the "molecules of hot hydrogen and oxygen" moved around me.  I felt their anger and their fear at nothing but my wondering.  Then I found my fear.  I don't need them to condemn me… I have condemned myself.  I did what I feared they would do, before they could do it.  


I entitled this poem, Naked Breathers.  In the grand picture, maybe that is all we all are… Naked and only surrounded by that which keeps us breathing in the space we have been given.  


Maybe I was angry and fearful once at other Naked Breathers, but it didn't serve me well.  It didn't allow me to breathe.  So I let go of my anger and my fear of how other breathers breathe.  But now I still find a residue of fear in me.  Fear that others will still be angry with me because I wonder.  


I long to get go of that fear and continue to wonder.  


NOT MY SON


(Written for my nephew Benjamin.  First part written March 9,2010, five months before Ben turned 20 years old.) 


Not my son
Do I have the right to love you
Like my son
Not my son
Though you're not my son, can I hold you like you are

I was there when you were born
I was there when you came home
I was there to see the smile in your infant eyes

As you grew, I came for birthdays
Holidays and Sundays
I was there to see you grow in heart and size

But now you've put your toys away
It's girls and sports, that's what you play
Your world is changing day by day

Not my son
Do I have right to love you
Like my son
Not my son
Though you're not my son, can I hold you like you are

Not my son
The road is stretching farther
The lessons learned are harder
The ones who call you son seem light years away

It feels like no one understands
Like no one's there to lend a hand
Not my son, can you turn your head my way

But now you've put your toys away
It's cars and cranes,  that's what you play
Your world is changing day by day

Not my son
Do I have right to love you
Like my son
Not my son
Though you're not my son, can I hold you like you are

I will always love you
You're the son I never had
Only God and they could love you more


( Benjamin passes away January 14, 2017 at 26.5 yrs:  

new verse written January 31, 2017)


Not my son, my heart’s on hold

How do I love you,

How do I let you go

I cannot feel the loss like the ones who call you son

My world goes on without you but my heart still doesn’t know


But now you put it all away

In Paradise is where you play

The world it changed that Saturday


Not my Son 

Do I have the right to grieve for you

Like my son

Not my son

If only in my dreams, can I hold you like you are


© Ruby Neumann





Poet's Note: 

I debated posting this poem on my blog before.  Maybe I know why I didn't.  I first recited it at the Edmonton Poetry Festival  and it garnered some heartfelt praise.  It is the title poem of the book I wrote after Ben died. 

 "Not my Son" the book is a compilation of stories, poems and letters all painting a portrait of the journey of one very precious nephew of mine.  His story, our story and my story after his story was over are all told in the pages of this book.  There is only one copy.  It is a book that will never see publication and that's not because his story doesn't need to be told.  It's because I don't feel like my perspective of the story matters to anyone other than me.  I wrote the book, collected the stories and pictures of Ben's life, included letters I wrote him when he was nineteen and filled it with poems I wrote for and about him. 

Now the book stays with me in the safety of my home and my heart.  Every once in a while I pull it out and share some Benjamin stories with my Mom.  She likes the stories, but she hasn't read the whole book.  To let her read the whole book is to invite her to feel a pain and loss that I just can't bear to put her through again.  I can't bear to put anyone through that again..

I am posting this poem because I have posted other poems that share my grief at not having an official place to grieve.  This week that changed.  Benjamin's ashes have been laid to rest in the same grave as the Grandpa he loved so much.  Now, when I go visit my Dad's grave, I visit Ben's grave.  It is an honour for both my mother and I and we will honour his place there as we honour my Dad and my Oma and Opa.  

"Not my Son" was written when I still could imagine "God" and "Paradise".  I am glad for poems that were written when I still could imagine and I will not change the lyrics for they came from a heart that is on Love's Journey.  

The Seventeenth


I was the Seventeenth.


I mattered.


The last among a throng of children.


Maybe not needed as much as I was wanted, desired, hoped for, welcomed in, embraced, treasured and above all… loved.


In a world today where children are expensive and too many are not necessary, I would not have lived.  But I was born in a time when seventeen mattered.  My mother had her reasons for having so many children.   Maybe it wasn't always about me.  But I was treasured along with the rest.  I wasn't a mistake, I wasn't extra, I wasn't a burden.  


My life will be over one day.  What have I done in this world that made a difference?  


I loved one man well.  He mattered because I mattered.  


I look at the daughters that I brought into the world.   They matter because I mattered.  Each of them matters.  Each story matters.  The love they had and have to share matters. 


I look at the others I loved over many years.  They also matter because I mattered.


I am grateful, more than most, for my life.  I have a story not many have.  I have a label not many have.  


I matter.


I am the Seventeenth.  


© Ruby Neumann



Poet's Note: Written for my Aunt Wilma on September 28, 2021.  Today I got an email from her daughter reminding me that her days on this earth are numbered.  I have thought often over the years about her place in her family.  I am grateful for her.  My life is different today because of her.  I am changed because of her… so to me… Seventeen matters!


This poem is a look through her eyes.  


Wilma Dyck passed away December 21, 2021.  I will miss her.  

Twenty Years Since...

Twenty years since the it all went down

Twenty years since…

But I can't tell the story

Because I wasn't there

And since…

So many stories have been in the air

And I don't know what or how to believe this time

I don't know… 

All I can do is cry and weep 

Because… 

What I remember is crying and weeping

Pain, sorrow, loss, anger, heartache, confusion

How much of that must have been there

Then...

Twenty years ago 

When...

It all went down


© Ruby Neumann



Poet's Note: How do I pick a picture for a poem with an obvious subject but a not so obvious portrait of it.  I found this picture of the sunflowers and the roses and it spoke to me.  It spoke of the sadness that looms over today and every 9-11 since 2001.  I am far away from the places and far away from the people and far away from the stories.  But I want to sit in the sadness with everyone today who is sitting in sadness in one way or another.  I want to pause and remember that.  That matters to me.  



Backyard Pastor

 

I remember the day they moved in next door

With their children, their dog and the cat

The neighbourhood came to life again

And there's nothing wrong with that


He moved his family to our town

To be close to his community 

A pastor living in the midst of his Church

Now that's the best place to be


We tried to do the neighbourly thing 

And welcome them to our block

We were greeted with a house of smiles

The moment, on their door, that we knocked


Over the years, we have enjoyed the life

That flowed from our neighbour's yard

The children's laughter and even their fights

To not appreciate both would be hard


On Sunday's we would watch them leave

To church, and wave them well

But to church is not our place to go

In our yard is where we dwell 


And yet over all the years

We never felt judged by him for our choice

He became our backyard pastor

With a different kind of voice


Often we chat over the fence

Of topics much like a supper stew

Life, God and vegetables

We talk like neighbours do


He told me once that winter was hard

And not because of the snow and the cold

"I don't get to visit as much with my neighbours"

Now there is a heart of gold

We walked into him the other day

And his smile had faded some

But there was joy still flowing from his face

Like through all the years had done


A diagnosis of cancer

News that no one wants to hear

What will become of our backyard pastor

Our hearts began to fear


But in that moment I remembered

That the moment is what we have

We must live in each moment

And let that make us glad


Tomorrow is never guaranteed

Life gives us only today

To admire the beauty of the sunflowers

That grow along the way


In that moment our backyard pastor

Told us that we were special, too

When the moment is all you have

Sharing your heart is what you do


We've never called him "Pastor"

Though to others he's a reverend 

A neighbour has no title

So we just call him friend


It would be our earnest prayer

That his time on earth be filled

With joy, with love, with gratitude

As the Creator has already willed


So a warm and hearty "Thank you" 

To our neighbour, we want to send

For amazing years as our backyard pastor

But mostly as our friend


© Ruby Neumann



Poet's note:  written September 30, 2020 
For Keith, our backyard pastor, neighbour and friend.  Last night, on July 15, 2021... he died .  I changed nothing in the poem from when I wrote it last fall.   


The photo is a picture I took this morning of our gardens.  Only a chainlink fence and my bunny fence separate our home grown produce.  I will miss our conversations over that fence.  

The Song of the Unknown Bird

There is a most beautiful song 

That sweeps its way to our ears

It comes in our bedroom window

And seems to lift our weighty fears


We know not where the song comes from

We have never seen the bird before

We have scoured the tree tops in search of it

But it evades us all the more


This morning we just listened

It is the most beautiful song around

And let go of the need to find the bird

That just does not want to be found


Maybe it's okay to embrace the mystery

And let the song make its way to our soul

The colour of the feathers, the shape of it's beak

Are details we really don't need to know


Then the search for the bird is a waste of time

Something to be released

When it's the song that really matters

And it's the song that gives us peace


Oh, Unknown Bird, stay hidden from sight

Amid the leafy throng

As long as we can still listen

To your most beautiful song


© Ruby Neumann



Poet's Note: Written July 11, 2021. 

We have the window open in our bedroom and my husband's favourite bird is singing.  We don't know what kind of bird it is, we have never seen it.  But it has the most beautiful song.  We have tried to search the tree tops to see if we can discover what the bird looks like, but we have come out empty handed every time.  So this morning we just laid in bed and listened to the song.  We didn't rush to the window to see if we could get a look.  We just listened.  

I told my husband.  "Maybe we can just embrace the mystery".  Why do I have to know the bird?  Will the colour of the feathers and the size of the beak make any difference on the beauty of the song?  Maybe it is an ugly bird by human standards, I have noticed that the most beautiful birds, like the blue jay and the magpie are not the best singers.  Maybe this beautiful songbird is not the best looking.  Maybe that is why it hides in the trees.  It knows that it's song is what it has to offer.  

Maybe one day we will meet the bird, but today, it's identity remains a secret.  And maybe I can be okay with that.  It's anonymity doesn't take away from the beauty of the song.  

Kissed by the Creator


Spring's newest roses

Unfolding in their colourful array

Is a kiss from the Creator


The hare that finds shelter 

'neath my wedding trees

Is a kiss from the Creator


The willow trees that bend and sway

In the storms and wind

Is a kiss from the Creator


The magpie that swoops down on my deck

With its feathers of beauty

Is a kiss from the Creator


The raindrops, lightning, dark thunder clouds

The snow, the frost, the icicles 

Are a kiss from the Creator


The food I plant each spring in my garden

The flowers that come back every year

Are a kiss from the Creator


The children playing in the yard across the street

The townsfolk that walk by my house

Are a kiss from the Creator


When I look into the night 

Or all around me in the day

I am kissed by the Creator


The stars, the trees, the flowers

The waters, the rocks, the animals

All are kisses from the Creator 


A kiss is an intimate expression of Love

A kiss is a reminder of loyalty

A kiss is connection


I was given a story once, an introduction

But in nature, in life, is an intimacy not found in the introduction

It is through nature, through life that I am kissed by the Creator


© Ruby Neumann



Poet's Note:  


"Jesus Loves me this I know… For the Bible tells me so."  This is a well known children's song.  But the words have lost meaning to me.  A book, even the bible, cannot convince me of love anymore.  It is the introduction, but doesn't hold me for much longer than that.  I am asked to believe in my head that "Jesus Loves me" or "God Loves Me".  But the head is not the residing place of Love. The Heart is not the resting place of knowledge.  I cannot be convinced from an debate, story or lecture that I am loved.  I can only be loved and in that act of loving will I discover I am loved.  


So how does The Creator Love?  I used to think it just was.  I couldn't explain it and didn't feel it necessary to paint a picture.  But over the last years, Love has become real, tangible, visual, interactive, effective… love has become more than a story; love has become Love. 


I may be a step or two away from being an atheist, but what keeps me from that declaration are the flowers in my garden or my cats or the birds in my crabapple tree or the weather, or the people in my life.  I can't paint a picture of the Creator.  I can't define gender, character, purpose, or plan.  But I can tell you when I get kissed.  And in that kissing, I am feeling loved.