the butterfly

affects the heart

I take my imagination

open

to flights

and it flutters

and falls

into the open

venue of ozone

where it might

spark

or

go mussing,

in contrast

like red madder

on cerulean does

when not mixed

in the brush

I make stuff up

I believe it

like a fool

till seen

in the mirror

objective,

where a stranger

finds

no need

for courage---

in obvious state

to say

--Look!

there's brown

smudged

on

your face--

And I know,

know

with pain

everything

is joyfully

missed

as I lift

a timid finger

to the winged

shape

and grin

lightly

to touch

the impermanent

permeance of

our mixed

perceptions

...it isn't the wings, is it, Butterfly?

all the migrations of your life... fly!

and landing upon your buttered cup,

proboscis to water, or to rotted fruit,

to feed... it's feet, the feet, that taste

the beloved Nectar...

10.10.2023

Butterfly Effect challenge @graceinpoetry

when i was about six i did a presentation

up in front of the class with a sort-of-friend

he had red henna in his hair

or maybe that hadn't happened yet

i was always annoyed by him

the fact that he was ahead of me in reading

i didn't know, standing next to him

that we came from similar places

that we were different to the other kids

who watched as we attempted to bow

the back of his head collided with my eye

that decision to bow in front of our class

to make the other kids laugh

put us in the office with a bruise and a black eye

two ice packs and excessive complaining

11 years and several more concussions later

my eyes are damaged once again

from excessive scrubbing at one in the morning

after screaming our guts out at a stage

in the city, a two hour train trip out of town

we stumbled home with our arms around each other

sitting on the floor of the train compartment

laughing despite our shattered throats

red stars in our eyes that only blinked to the other

this is a different kind of butterfly effect

in the way we emerged from our harsh chrysalis

and watched each other change

How mind-boggling that the tiny vibration of a butterfly’s wings flapping might ripple the air like the water when you throw a pebble in a lake, such that the air currents form a storm somewhere far away from the flitting and flying from flower to flower.

It seems to me the smallest event that has a profound impact on every life is the one that got us all here: What if a different spermatozoon beat out all the others and fertilized the awaiting ova? You wouldn’t be you. I wouldn’t be me.

Each ejaculation of a healthy male contains 40 million to 600 million spermatozoa. They are so minuscule they can only be seen with a microscope. If any one of the other millions combined with the awaiting ova, a different human would have developed.

Not you.

Not me.

You exist because that one little plasma membrane’s tail swished a little harder, a little faster than the rest and the head burrowed safely into the ova, merging and creating, you.

Now that, is mind boggling.

I feel that life is a series of butterfly effects. The mystical butterfly that creates these effects is a unique species known as Possibility. Now, when Possibility flutters her wings it creates a ripple effect of all that can be, should be, desired to be, or will be in a person's life. Possibility's wings can be magnificently, peacefully, beautiful. Conversely, Possibility's wings can also create ripple that are dark, ugly, and marbled with chaos' ever threatening lightening storms. Most of us will experience an intertwined combination of Possibility's beauty laden ripples and it's dark, frothing ripples. Each flutter of Possibilities wings will create ripples in the surface of who we are. As these ripples reach their terminus, Possibility will flutter her wings again and a new ripple of all that can be, should be, or will be in a person's life is created.

The ripples created by the movement of Possibilities wings will often intersect with the ripples belonging to other souls. These meetings may lead to a whole new flutter of Possibility's wings which in turn creates comingled ripples. The ripples may also compete against each other striving to be the dominant current. The winner may succeed in pinning Possibility's wings to her side, robbing the loser of the chance to experience new ripples. It could also manage to stifle her or restrict her ability to fully extend her wings so that only the smallest ripples can be created, limiting the impact of all that can be, should be, or will be for the loser.

For me, the ripples of my parents comingled, but not in a positive way. The combining of ripples with my parents experience was closer to cancer cells replicating to create a tumor. As a result, I inherited the weights of mental illness, anger, and self-hatred which weighed down Possibility's wings. No ripples were created for me. Instead, I was caught in the chaotic ripples of my mom's mental illness', bad choices, and contentment to live in poverty. During those rare times when I was cast away from the flotsam and jetsam of her sickly ripples, I found myself floundering in the ripples of peers who found satisfaction in beating Possibility in front of me. Disabled, "You can't play with us because you're a cripple." Disabled, "You're a special ed case. Stay away we don't want to catch your stupid." Poor, "Your clothes are old and dirty." I was about 10 years old when I became caught in the ripples of a teacher. For the first time ever, Possibility's wings were able to flutter just a little. Though small, shaky, and uncertain, these ripples were my own and maybe, the next flutter would be stronger.

Possibility's wings did grow stronger, but were still weighed down by my mental illness, lack of self worth, and weak sense of where the next ripples may lead. In the darkness, I decided to end my ripples and send Possibility away. Once again, the ripples of others saved me and Possibility's wings grew a bit lighter.

Now, it must be noted that Possibility need not point in one direction. She can move and does so to shift her foundation, to give her wings the chance to flutter in a changing wind. The dark ripples of my life must have been displeasing to Possibility because she shifted directions just a bit. Though the foul ripples remained, they added a push and then faded into clearer, stronger ripples. The ripples of abuse, poverty, mental illness, and cruelty flowed into and strengthened ripples of kindness, diligence, passion, and because of the slight brush against the ripples of compassion I encountered from others, a desire to give back.

The next flutter of Possibility created strong ripples of healing, a hunger for knowledge, and a desire to terminate the ripples of addiction in others. These ripples led to another flutter which led to a degree in substance abuse counseling. From here, flutters led me to finish college and towards a career helping others. Possibility's wings may not always create crystal clear ripples and sometimes the ripples it creates may become a bit dark. Still, there is always another soul's ripple out there that if brushed against can make Possibility shift just enough to send future ripples in a better direction.

It's a dreary British afternoon, the air chilly, the trees whispering to the wind.

I sit, a vial in my hand, look to the sky, my stupid practical work taking far longer than I've expected, and wish to be anywhere else but now.

The long walk home, alone. My classmates already disappeared after this hopeless afternoon. My spirits are low as I arrive at school and drop off my equipment, no one else in sight.

But wait - who are those people, chatting ahead of me?

I run, I dash across the stones and say hello.

She catches my eye, conversation bubbles up and suddenly we have split from the rest of the group. Just me and her. Where are you from? What's your name? Where are you going to?

We split our separate ways with a smile and a wave and an exchange of numbers that tumbles over to the next few days and weeks and maybe months and years, and all of a sudden, I'm no longer so upset about that stupid practical that took me so long to complete.

The teenage years are often referred to as the best years of your life, and while that may be true, I won't know for sure until I'm older. However, in my experience, the teenage years are one of the most challenging periods in life. As difficult as this stage of my life has been, I am still grateful for each and every mistake I made along the way. I’ve learned so many things, and though it was painful at the time, it has prepared me for my future. It’s made me who I am.

It can be challenging for me at times to be thankful for the teenage years I have left to live, and there are times when I even wish I could skip ahead in time. But I've come to the conclusion that perhaps this struggle is for the best. It's a time of grace when I can make mistakes without suffering as many repercussions. I am forced to adjust to my newfound freedom.

I can fail and still learn from my errors without causing too much harm. In the end, I'm grateful for all of the mistakes I've made, even though they've caused me to experience heartbreak, fail classes, and miss out on career possibilities. The toxic friendships, fake friends, and academic failures taught me something. Despite being at the bottom, that is what will enable me to progress.

I have a part-time job that is ideal for me because it is close to my house, and I get along well with my coworkers. The fact is, I was hired for this position as a result of mistakes I made. I hadn't realized I didn't fit the age restriction when I first applied for another job. I was very disappointed, but if I hadn't messed up and gone to the interview, I never would have learned about my current job, which was a better fit for me and paid more.

I have a wonderful girlfriend who I adore dearly, and I doubt that I would be with her if I hadn't been in a previous relationship and experienced a broken heart. I dated my present girlfriend for a while; however, our relationship ended in a breakup. I eventually moved on to another relationship, but when I discovered she was having an affair with someone we both knew, my heart was devastated. Because our mutual friend had a crush on her, I ended up getting back in touch with my ex because I wanted to talk to her and make sure she knew what our friend had done. We eventually went out as friends, but it made us realize that we still had feelings for one another, so we got back together.

If I look back on all of the mistakes I’ve made and the things I suffered through, I can see a butterfly effect. Each of these things led to something wonderful happening, reconnecting with my girlfriend, getting a good job, and getting into an amazing early college high school. All of these things wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t made mistakes along the way. Even though it doesn’t feel good, I will forever be thankful for the suffering I’ve gone through in my teenage years.

Loose things are jettisoned around the world

When our planet turns this way and that

And they are carried, acrobatically whirled

Because this Earth ain't flat.

Butterflies flapping their wings

Is the first domino to fall

And makes the fronts and temperature swings

And the troughs and thunderheads tall

Dusty was a mote of note,

Awaft like a boat on a sunbeam;

He knew not where to float—

And was carried willy-nilly downstream.

The sunlight carried him on a shaft,

A bright ray across the ocean;

He breezed by, airborne, in a draft,

Carrying other motes aloft in motion.

“Hola,” said one mote who flew,

“My proper name is Smidgen;

“I came all the way from Lima, Peru,

In the dander of a pigeon.”

“Oy!” another mote said his way;

“Everyone calls me Speck;

An old Greek scratched his neck all day,

We floated off—me and my pal, Fleck.”

“Ciao,” said bambino mote, Scintilla.

“I’ve drifted with the changing weather;

I came in lint from a Roman villa

With fluff, some dirt, and a feather.”

“Bonjour, je m’appelle Soupçon,” one said with flair.

“I’ve blown this way from Paris, France;

I began my trip and took to the air

When Messier shook out his pants.”

“Yo, I’m here, too,” said little Trace—

“Got here by way of Beijing,

I’ve been here, there, all over the place—

But you’d hardly know by looking.”

“I came in with the flower’s pollen,”

Said L’il Bit hovering softly.

I came in with the things a’crawlin’,

Slithering, and creeping awfully.”

“I’m just called Squinch, much less than a pinch,”

Achooed a little puff o’pepper.

“I make folks sniff and cough and sneeze

Until they say they’re better.”

“I come from a sweater,” is what Shred said,

“Untied from wear and tear;

I used to be longer before I shed,

And now it’s gone threadbare.”

“I’m just a small portion,” said Modicum, so carefree,

“I’m making a symbolic debut.

They say common sense could use some of me

Respect, kindness, and decency, too!”

Booger’s my name and I’m a smudge;

That got flung from a finger in Tonga.

But mucus is sticky and doesn’t budge

Watch out I might get on ya!”

Then the mote named Morsel

Floated by and by,

“I’m just a crumb, off a cereal parcel

When its boxing went awry.

The dollop named Dab glopped on the floor

And filched us all there with him:

Booger and me and Smidgen and more

Joined the dust bunny in the kitchen.

Bunny and we rolled to a corner

Happily in our demeanor

And waited for our next ride

Inside a vacuum cleaner.

But please don’t worry about the fate

I share with Sparkle, Tinge, and L’il Bit.

Soon we’ll be back out and recreate

More dust, from afar, so wait for it.

“Aloha,” said Iota, who said we oughta

Listen up—there’s a lot to learn:

“The afternoon means rain and water

And you might end up in an urn.”

***

NOTE: I originally wrote this as a children's rhyme for my grandchildren.

It was my fault, you see.

He asked permission to leave.

It was my turn to "babysit."

And although I generally included our baby brother, never getting embarrassed of him when I was with my girlfriends, I just wanted a night to myself.

I simply said, "go ahead!"

He didn't need to wait for me.

It was my turn to live a little.

And even as I was saying it a little too gruffly, he giggled and smiled because he had the answer he wanted and would have left anyway but under a huff.

That huff would take time.

He'd have left a few minutes later.

It was my choice to not argue.

And he loved a good argument, especially if he could turn it back on you to make it make sense for whatever he wanted in that moment and without regret.

He didn't do regret; how strange that he is mine.

This one might be for the macabre, so I must joust a trigger warning for non descriptive assault.

On one common night, I sat at home with a fresh paper bag of Wendy's breeding grease on my comforter, originally ivy now evergreen. I couldn't care, my eyes were glued to the TV- a cheap, 150 dollar thing that had horrible audio and burnt my retinas but I couldnt look away from the reality show depicting strangers vowing for their last chance at love if an atomic bomb dropped. How insipid, some were 24 and had they even tried love without needing 15 minutes of fame? My lips keep finding the amber bottle neck, chugging around the stupidity.

The text comes in not too long later, a friend beckoning me out. One quick glance at the time tells me it's nearly four in the morning but what else was I going to do other than rot in this onion ring smelling hole? So, I do the only normal thing my drunk mind says, which is to climb out the window.

My window- half the size of a normal one that seats the basement. I cut off the bug screen with a pocket knife, and feel the cold air hit my face as well as my back- because my mother had slammed the door open, robe on and a fiery look in her eye.

"Where are you going?" She asks, rightfully incensed as I just broke a piece of her home.

"Out." I say helpfully, my torso already angled out into freedom. "Party being thrown."

I hear her sigh, and I know she's taking a moment to look at the massacre of my bedroom so I pull myself out to glare for no reason other than she seems to be in the wrong. This is my space- who is she to judge if I want to eat greasy food and drink my weight in cheap liquor?

I stumble to my feet, throwing on a hoodie thats stained but I cant be asked to find anything nicer.

"Please, don't go." She says suddenly. And it sounds like a plea, or even a warning. If I was six beers sober I might have heeded it. My family has never been wrong- my grandma calls me to ask why Ive taken the rosary off my rearview mirror without ever seeing it. I like to joke they're psychic But as it was, I rolled my eyes and clamoured to the hall way to make for the back door which would have made sense in the first place without desecrating the window framing.

"You don't control me." I say. "I'll be fine. I'll be safe. I have my friends there."

"You don't know those people." She says. I imagine she means my friends, and I spin on my heel to glower.

"You don't know shit." Is my departing words as I make for the Yber sitting idle in the alley.

Not much later, im at the place the party is being hosted. All is fine, for a bit, until a man joins the fray of us and starts to pet my hair. But I have a cup of moonshine my friend made, and it's wonderfully blurring the lines of morality. He follows where I go- if I am outside, he's there touching my toes with the toe of his boot. If I go to the bathroom to hook up with someone who I think may be missing teeth, he waits at the door like a dog with a bird in its jaws.

And when I go to bed, he follows.

If I had listened to my mother- if I had registered that fire in her eye for what I had been, swirling pools of sense and worry, I may not have ended up how I did the next morning. I know it is not my fault, and I could not have prevented it. Perhaps my friends could have, when they heard a belt undoing. But they are not responsible for the actions of a monster. They couldn't make the devil quit his day job, of sending his pioneering demons to attack a drunk girl.

My girlfriend broke up with me the next day because of the assault, though she never knew of the cheating. Perhaps that is karma. Perhaps my mother didn't want to find her daughter crying, and her sleepless night was in time with my horror filled one.

Not all butterfly effects are good. Some monarchs have clipped wings and singed holes in their skin. Some butterflies find solace in that stale bag of Wendy's the following day.