The War of Kindness . . .

.
.
Well, I said I might write a poem one of these days. So for whatever it is worth... a simple thought from a simple mind.
.
.
.
.
...The War of Kindness

.
.
.
Just once…
Just once in my life before I die
I would like to get up one morning
And not have to read
About another awful war somewhere
About another country burning
As humans pillage and plunder and rape
As they have been doing for millennia now
As humans blow each other into little bits
With pistols and rifles and bullets and bombs
As humans demonstrate yet again just how great
Is their infinite capacity for hate
.
Just once…
Yes, just once in my lifetime
I would love to see
A headline in the morning newspaper
Hear the newspaper vendor exclaiming
"Extra, extra, read all about it,
A war of kindness has been declared" !
And then to find when reading the story
To find that a powerful country
Had decided one day
Upon careful deliberation
After seeing another country in misery
To overwhelm the suffering land
With an outpouring of love and kindness and harmony
To learn that they had mobilized
Their every available resource
To mount a vast and caring logistical operation

Thus by surprise one fine morning
An army of cleaning ladies
Crossed over the border
Bearing brooms and brushes and feather dusters
Followed by an armada of trucks
Carrying cleaning supplies, soaps, detergents
They cleaned every kitchen every bathroom every toilet
They did all the laundry and hung it out to dry
The ironing was all done and neatly folded
They washed every window pane
A second wave of brigades all pushing vacuum cleaners
Followed by more with furniture polish galore and rags
And they set about cleaning every house in the land
At noon battalions of handymen
Were sent in as the dust was already flying
Each had toolkits and loads of supplies
They fixed every leaking faucet
Every squeaking door hinge was oiled
Every machine every axel was greased
They had brushes and paint
This army of saints
They cleaned out gutters
They swept the streets
They pruned the trees

In the afternoon
Hospital ships appeared along the coasts
Mobile field hospitals in vast tents
Were set up across the land
Whole armies of doctors and nurses
Were sent in, but not to clean up
The usual disasters of traumatic amputations
And mangled bleeding bodies of our usual wars
But to heal cataracts and dispense cancer treatments
To comfort and cure and care for the downtrodden
.
By the end of day one
The war had been won
But it was not over by far
It was just getting started
The generals and admirals
Had all been lovingly plotting
The machine of kindness
Had been set in motion
There was no telling
Where it might be stopping
Baskets of fruit were sent to every home
Boxes of chocolates to every address
The billions of dollars usually spent
During wars for things that go "bang" and "boom"
Were quietly transferred in careful equality
To every bank account in the target country
No strings attached to this giant infusion
Fresh flowers were sent by the truckload

Farmers came with tractors and ploughed the fields
Whole trainloads of fine foods and wines
Were sent until every table in the land overflowed
Cooks and singers and dancers and poets
Were all sent on missions to do their best
To spread happiness and good cheer
Far and wide
As they waged this war of kindness
.
Just once…
Just once in my life
Is that too much to hope for ?
.
.
.
.
Copyright 2012

Caution : Life Sometimes Leaves Scars . . .

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
In the far away country of Texas there is a blog where the writing is so unbelievably good that I cannot possibly tell you how good it is. It dazzles and shines with the raw forces that underly our minds and souls. It is honest, with an honesty that brings stinging tears to dry eyes in an instant, or takes one on a magic carpet ride through cloudscapes and dreamscapes beyond imagining. I can only encourage you to hasten there, to read at some length, and if you come away feeling like I do, to pass the word, link to her blog, become an addict. The blog is named Dreams, Deliriums, and Other Mind Talk. The link here leads to a piece that Nevine posted the other day about a scar on the back of a woman, opening up a universe of possible reflections about scars and how people live with them, their impact on people's lives.
(Des cicatrices)
.
I left Nevine a brief comment letting her know her piece had deeply touched me, and that I might say something further about the subject elsewhere. The following piece is posted as an echo from across the valley to Nevine's beautifully gripping piece of writing about scars.
.
.
.
.
. .Scars From the Past
.
.
A couple of weeks ago
I was back in my home town
For the first time in years
I had stopped in the public library
Just to see if it still looked
The way it had when as a kid
I'd checked out piles of books
For the summer reading contests
I was looking around
Just taking things in
So many memories were there
Of stories from way back when
The world was still
A shining, glistening place
And dreams were ripe on the vine
When I noticed a woman
Somewhat younger than I
Sitting at a reading table
Ensconced in a book
She had quite a vivid scar
Running across her chin
Visible from the other side of the room
.
The expression,
"It all came flooding back"
Is a cliché
But that is exactly what happened
It all came flooding back :
A winter afternoon
I must have been about eleven or twelve
It had snowed heavily
Through the previous night
That morning we woke up
Eagerly listening to the radio
Announcing the list of schools closed
Jubilation when ours was named
A day of freedom from teachers and books
A day to get out and play
In the pure white gleaming snow
.
We made snow angels
Lying on our backs
Spreading our arms and legs
Raising arms over our heads
To make the angel wings
Then sitting up and trying to get back up
Without marring the angel's form
.
Dragging sleds and behind us
Our old wooden sleds with steel runners
Which had to be waxed with paraffin
We headed up to the best hill in the village
By the college campus
A good long steep stretch
That went down to the where
The football field flattened out
There were lots of other kids there already
But more than enough space for a few more
So we careened down the hill on our sleds
Again and again gleefully playfully
My older brother and I
On one run we ran into each other
Tumbling in the snow down the hill
Laughing, running back up to the top
And decided to run into some other kids
For laughs, the dumb things kids do for fun
We were all so thickly bundled up
In heavy winter coats and scarves
Mittens or gloves and boots
Hoods or knit wool caps on juvenile heads
We thought no harm could come of it
.
I waited for someone to start down the hill
And then ran with my sled and leapt on
Taking a diagonal path to intersect the other
Without fail the laws of gravity and physics
Obeyed their orders
Two descending objects
Accelerating down the snowy slope
Ran into each other in a muffled collision
One boy rolling away still laughing with success
One girl tumbling in a heap
Then sitting up with hands to face
And a mournful wail broke loose
Which turned to a high pitched cry
I could never forget
And blood, blood welled up
Between her fingers
Blood ran down and dripped in the white snow
.
Somehow in the sliding crash of two sleds
One had bucked up and twisted, overturning
An iron runner slashing
Right across a young girl's chin
As the two rolled to a stop on the slope
She was crying and bleeding
I remember saying to my brother
"We better carry her back up to the top"
And he said something like
"What do we need to carry her for
She didn't break her legs"
I yelled at him out of fear
And rising panic
"Well she isn't very well
Going to walk back up by herself is she"
.
The problem resolved itself
When her mother came running
Down the hill
Having seen that something was amiss
Her eyes wide when she saw
Her daughter bleeding and crying there
Still holding her sliced open chin
We mumbled it was an accident
Her mother ignored us
In her hurry to help her daughter
Who was obviously going to need
Medical attention
.
We went back home slowly
Sheepishly crestfallen beaten
It wasn't supposed to have happened like that
Never had I meant to hurt someone
I remember the fear
Feeling terrified that I would be punished
For having done that terrible thing
Whether I'd meant to or not
We didn't tell my parents
Gradually in the passing days
The fear went away
And the school year went on
Nothing happened
As she was younger than I
She wasn't in my class
I never saw her again
I never knew her name
The terror of that day
The horror of the blood
Leaking out through clasped fingers
The fear in her eyes
And that cry of hurt and shock
All of that gradually faded away
And I never thought of her again
.
Until the other day
When I saw the woman
With a vivid scar
Across her chin
Sitting in the library reading
I hesitated there a long moment
Wondering whether I should
Try to speak to her
To ask if it were she
From that winter afternoon
Long ago
But finally I dared not
I could well be wrong
Scars can be had in so many ways
Car accidents
Ice skating
Whipping posts
Self inflicted
Assorted forms
Of modern world violence
None are pleasant to remember
Or speak of
I did not wish
To impose on her
My own sentimental projection
Of past guilt
Dark and infinite guilt
No words of mine
Could ever make her scar disappear
Could give her back
Her pristine childhood chin
Nor her years of gazing in mirrors
Wondering what it might have been
To live an unscarred life
I walked away
Back out of the library
Drove away from the town
.
But I think if I ever saw her again
I would want to tell her
I am sorry . . .
That I understand . . .
For I too am deeply scarred
Perhaps as a result
Of poetic justice
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Getting Out of Hock . . .

.

This past week can only be described as having been pure hell; and it is not over yet, will be working again Saturday and Sunday too. I was given a tiny little whisk broom and a dustpan, and asked to sweep up all of the ashes from that ash-hole of a volcano in Iceland. It is slow and tedious work. What I really need are snowplows and giant vacuum cleaners, but no, just me and my little broom against twenty trillion tons of cinders. It may take a while to get back to normal. And I'm missing you all. Well, we may be a little down, but we're not out for the count, hopefully soon things will return to normal, and then visits to your blogs will resume. Thanks for your patience and understanding . . .

.

It has been a little while since I last posted a poem; for some unfathomable reason this one surfaced from the cesspool, errrr, the archives this morning after a long and grueling night at the ash factory . . .

.

.

. . . . . .Pawned
.
.
Weary of financial woes
Scratched my head and wiggled my toes
Searching for an answer
Tired of the mounting bills
Wishing I could stop
A sudden notion hit me
Like a draft of magic potion
Why not simply cut out my heart
And take it to the pawn shop ?
It is surely worth a fortune
With its four chambers
That never miss a beat
Miraculous valves
Muscles that pump
Must be worth
At least a cool million
.
And if that is not enough
Then why not my brain
With all of the riches
The damn thing contains
The pawn shop should pay
Through the nose
To their very last dollar
This brain has seen
The David in Florence
The Sistine Chapel
The Liberty Bell and the Mona Lisa
The Atlantic, Pacific, Mediterranean
University trained and well maintained
There is no doubt
This is a top dollar brain
And living without it
Would be a life with less pain
.
What else could I pawn then ?
No matter how much you earn
It is never enough
Maybe my eyes
These miraculous eyes
Crystal balls
Presenting visions
Transforming reality
Maybe my lungs
Just reach down my throat
Pull them out like broccoli
With their magical ability
To extract oxygen from the air
Who needs to go on breathing
Anyway ?
.
Trade in my liver
Trade in my bones
The marrow you know
Is quite good boiled on toast
Cold cash for my kidneys
And all of their stones
I know I’ll sleep easy
In fact I’m starting to doze
Once I’m entirely pawned
That will put an end
To these financial woes
.
The only question remaining
It occurs to me with a shock
Is how the hell will I ever
Be able to get myself out of hock ?
.

.

.
And if I ever could get myself out of hock, I'd be off to go looking again for my dream house, a suitable place to spend the rest of my days . . . found this candidate a while back. You gotta love the cedar shake siding, sets my knees to shaking . . .
.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Holding Out . . .

.
.
Random Winter Thoughts
.
.
Although the shortest day of the year
Is well behind us
The coldest months
Are in front of us
To be borne as one may
.
In the Spring the sap rose
Circulating through arboreal veins
Bringing life to buds
Which burst forth in leaves
Leaves basking
In the summer sun
Green faces breathing
Weaving and waving when the wind blew
As they have been doing
These past few hundred million years or so
.
When the Fall came
The sap began to withdraw
The leaves began to wither
Changing from green to gold to brown
Toward the end of October
The winds blew harder
The rains came
The leaves began to fall
Soon in droves they let go
Released, they traced
Their various paths
Inevitably down
Back down to the ground
Returning to the Earth
To become soil again
.
Yet in the last days of November
I saw there were still a few survivors
Who refused to let go
Hanging on tenaciously
Looking down from their height
Not willing to return to the mud
Maybe loving the view
From up there
Company only to birds
Who might alight
For a moment
.
For a few days
I marvelled at those survivors
Though they finally succumbed
To the same forces
As their brethren leaves
Before them
What will then drove them
To hang on longer
Clinging against all hope
To their tiny uppermost branch
Unwilling to let go
What desire what motive
What emotion
Inspired them
To stay just one more day
And then another ?
.
And what matter all this ?
I thought I might say something deep
Something quite profound
But I fear what I have uttered here
Is trite, perhaps rather shallow
Like a field that’s lying fallow
With potential buried
But no life growing
Barren
Where no seed was sown
And time wanders onward
I wonder if I’ve grown ?
What matter these words
This heart that beats
This breath that pains to speak ?
.
Yet I would hold on
Like those leaves
I would hold on
Another day
Just one more day
One more breath
Fighting
The wind
The heartless
Winter wind
.
.







































.







































.







































At the end of November
The skies gave way to grey from blue
And then there were two . . .
.



































.
.

Canary Island Flight . . .

I had to go all the way to the Canary Island of Tenerife to take this photo in early 1994. There was construction going on all over the coast near where we stayed on the western end of Tenerife ; I suppose these toilets were stacked up waiting to go into the bathrooms of yet another tourist hotel. Does this photo say anything about my views on the world ? Better let the psychologists answer that one. There is a poem that goes with this, that I wrote on the first night in the hotel near where these toilets were waiting to start serving their destined purpose.
.
Also, I'd just like to say, I recntly had the great pleasure of stumbling by serendipitous chance on a sublime blog with the magical title Dreams, Delirium, and Mind Talk, written by the enchanting Nevine Sultan, who I am starting to believe is descended from ancient Egyptian royalty, for it would be easy, extremely easy, to try to describe her spell-binding writing in poetry and prose as nothing short of divinely inspired, in an entirely mystical sense. I encourage you, click on the link to her blog, see what you think. I was hooked from the first few phrases. Today she published a piece called "freefalling", and if you give it a read, you will see why I pulled out the below piece as a counter point. (the poem I mean, not the photo...)
.























.
.
....Canary Flight
.
.
Homer Stern was sitting
At the white table
Which stretched away before him
Like an arctic waste
An empty ashtray miles away
On the wind swept horizon
Eleven floors up
In a concrete tower
No ivory nor ebony
Only iron girders cloaked
In irony
A prison playing at paradise
.
The water purification plant
In the washed out ravine
Behind the hotel
Is scrambling shit
For all it’s worth
Churning like a Santa Fe freight
Climbing the long grade
Up toward Donner pass
Homer doubts that sleep
Will be forthcoming
.
The motor driven blades
Plowing through the fecal matter
Sound like a flock of C-130’s
Bearing down on a jump zone
And Homer steps to the window
Looks down at the tennis court
Eleven floors below in the darkness
The white lines faintly gleaming
Beckoning like a helicopter pad
To a tired pilot
He imagines the descent
The jolt of landing
Bright light followed by no light
Preceeded by a few vicious seconds
Of total awareness
While falling, flailing, falling
Senses screaming
.
In the morning the entire west side
Of the hotel would be on their balconies
Looking down on the carnage
Dried ketchup spray
The local west-side story
For a day two
Homer restrains himself
Despite the shit grinding din
Of late night sewage treatment
More or less akin
To late night TV
He doesn’t want to cast a pall
On so many people’s
Vacation here in paradise
.
.

Distortion . . . (re-visited)

This post is being re-cycled back into the present, simply because I stumbled on it this evening while looking for something else in the back pages of the swamplands here, and thought it looked lonely, like it wanted a new lease on life. The tomb referred to in this piece as being just a few posts down is actually back in November of 2008, and can be seen here... if you're curious. The message on the tomb in question is one of the most incredible I've ever seen anywhere...
.
And also, I'd like to dedicate this one to Tom at TomB. Photography, because he is doing simply outstanding work, and so far it looks like not alot of folks have discovered his blog, unless they are all lurkers not leaving any words in his comment box . . . anyway, see for yourself. . .
.
































I wrote the below piece nearly exactly 20 years ago, while living in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, but getting ready to depart to other horizons. Sometimes when you know you are going to be leaving a place, probably forever, it takes on a strange light. I had to wait 20 years to get the photo that goes with this poem here... a near perfect fit, taken just yesterday afternoon, before stumbling on the cemetery where the below described tomb was found. When the time draws nigh to leave this life, I wonder what things are going to start looking like then ? For info, this photo was not re-worked in any way, shape or form, the distortion is naturally occurring, the effect of a truck no doubt having somehow hit the mirror in question. Will have to go back and try this again under some different lighting conditions...
.
.
........Red Light
.
I was stopped at the traffic light
Stopped, sitting still
But outside… everything was moving.
.
Trees were swaying dangerously
Parked cars were swerving
Toward the curbs
Yellow stripes on the road
Slithered into the distance
Power lines overhead
Spun a dizzying jump-rope dance
Brick buildings were bouncing
And leaning into Escher perspectives
Threatening to assume
A permanent Pisa pose
Sidewalk squares swirled
Like the rapids in Pole Creek Canyon
The town began to tilt
Until I stared straight down
At the vanishing point
On the undulating horizon
Patches of the scene became hazy
And disappeared, then reappeared
Magnesium bright ghost lights
Hovered in the gutters
Only my radial tires’ steel grip
Kept me glued there
Until the traffic light
Turned green.
.
As I drove home
I recognized that
The distortion was internal
This town is slipping into the surreal
Because I know that I am leaving.
.
.

Close Call

Well, it's not only about photography... this is a true story, for what it's worth...
.
.
.........Close Call
.
I had left the big heavy red crowbar
Lying a little too close
To where I was digging
With the pick-axe
Trying to excavate
The massive cement slabs
Which the idiot previous owners
Of this house had partially buried
Around the edge of the sand filled pit
In the back yard
That served god only knows what
Incomprehensible purpose for them
They didn’t have any more kids at home
When they built it
.
These days all the neighborhood cats
Ours included
Were using it for their shitting ground
And pissing palace
Midnight meowing and howling ring
And we’d had about enough of that
.
So there I was
Swinging that damn pick-axe
For all I was worth
Starting to sweat in the cool October air
Plowing through sand
And the packed dirt below
Cursing at tree roots and buried rocks
Waiting to hear the knock
Of iron axe on wood
If I hit one of the coffins
That must be there somewhere
Or the chest of buried gold
When my hard swung axe
Collided with the end of the crowbar
That was hanging over the edge
Of the mystery pit
Launching it into the air
With a resounding clang
At a terrific velocity
End over end
.
I actually heard it whistling
In slow motion
Right past my right ear
Aware of a red blur
Streaking by my eye
As it rocketed upward
Into the tree branches above me
.
I heard it slashing through leaves
Like a helicopter rotor blade
Like a machete
Wielded by King Kong
And then it fell
Harmlessly in a shrub
Bounced back down to earth
Hardly was airborne
More than a few seconds
.
I was naturally a little shaken
Couldn’t believe it in fact
In a state of denial
I mean the damn thing
Could have killed me
And who would have believed it
A crowbar for crying out loud
What are the chances
Of that happening ?
.
And how embarrassing
It would have been
To have to have been taken
To the hospital
With a crowbar
Sticking out of my ear
Better to be dead than alive
In that case
Or if it had just struck
A glancing blow
Enough to open up
A gaping bloody wound
Needing forty stitches to close it
How do you explain that
To the emergency room nurse
And how would my wife have felt
If she had found me there
On my back with a crowbar
Sticking out my mouth in the air
A somewhat surprised look
On my glazed over eyes ?
.
How many people are victims
Of launched tool accidents
Every year anyway
Flying crowbars clawhammers
Nail-guns chainsaws and whatnot ?
.
I got off very easy this time
Feel like I won the lottery in fact
Another millimeter
One way or the other
Could have programmed
Another trajectory
Another ending
That is what you could call
A very close call
And it will teach me
Not to leave that big red crowbar
Lying just any old place
The next time
I’m out raising hell
In the backyard
.
.

The Road Never Travelled . . .

There have been a few requests, voices borne upon the wind, reaching my ears in the deepest of night's dark hours, for more poems . . . It is true, I hesitate to publish my poems here, I rather suspect many of them are pushing the comfort zone a bit, stretching into the realm of the questionable, the dubious, the downright obnoxious. I feel particularly naked when reciting my scraps of poems in public. Much of my poetry such as it is, echoes the sad and desolate place the world is becoming, as we race ever faster into an uncertain future . . . which is exactly what this one is about . . .
.
.
I Never Even Look
.
.
By the side of the road
I take to work every day
Where it goes up and over a hill
There is a small dirt road turn-off
And an abandoned house rotting there
That I never look at as I drive by
Light brown dirt and rocks
In the ragged trail
A dark green plank door off its hinges
Leaning against a stone wall
The dirt track goes up to the field beyond
I can see it in my mind’s eye
Although I never even glance that way
As I drive by
Bent on getting to work
And starting yet another dreary day
In the coal mines of my existence
Behind the blue and yellow prison bars
Of the barbed wire factory
Where airplanes and trucks come and go
Belching great clouds of poisonous fumes
To darken the horizon
.
And each day when the weather is nice
There is a girl standing in the place
I have never seen
Leaning against the old house
She is young, very young
But not all that young
She wears black leather boots
Tight skirts a blue nylon parka
With fake fur around the cuffs and hood
The rise of pert breasts
Suggested under a white sweater
Sometimes holding an umbrella
In case of sudden showers
And her face is a mystery
Because I have never ever looked
At any of these details
She may be from Kiev or Kosovo
Or Smolensk or Slovakia
How would I know
I never saw her
.
And today going by
I was in the left lane
Passing a slower car going up the hill
Driving a little too fast
Late for work as usual
I definitely purposely did not turn my head
To see her new purple parka
Nor wonder as I never do
Where she goes with her clients
And what exactly she does with them
That sexy young girl in dark stockings
Who I have never seen
.
And I wasn’t looking in the mirror
To catch another glimpse
Of her radiant innocence
When a truck pulled out in front of me
And I didn’t see the heavy metal tailgate
Approaching at what seemed to be
The speed of light
.
.

Digging In The Archives . . .

It's been ages since a poem was published in these pages, but as I've said more than once in the past, it's not just about the photos. Something in the below post about people losing their heads reminded me of this little piece written a while back; languishing ever since in a dark desk drawer . . . well, to quote Lady Macbeth : "Out damned spot ! Out I say ! One; two: why, then, ’tis time to do ’t. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? . . ."
.
.
.
. . .Brainwashing
.
.
I wish with all my heart
And my liver and my lungs
That I could find the courage
To plug in my saber saw
Turn it on and stick
The furiously vibrating blade
In my ear
And work it in a large circular path
Around the side and top
Of my skull
Returning to the point of entry
Too bad for that ear
But I’ve still got another one
Nature’s marvellous duplicity
Once this minor incision done
Turn off the saw
Ah, silence is golden
.
And then I could lift off
The newly released piece of armor bone
Opening a portal
On the top of my head
Which would thus permit
Me to step under a warm shower
And wash my soiled brain
Lathering with shampoo
Massaging slippery coils
With deeply probing fingers
Pouring in gallons of chlorine bleach
Industrial strength stain removers
Disinfecting toilet cleaner
Ajax Mr Clean
Draino for the really tough clogs
.
Over forty years
Of accumulated grunge and grime
Layer after layer of various manures
Like an archeological dig
In a sewage covered
Concentration camp cemetery
Pour in the acid pour in the lye
To burn away centuries of lies
Scrub it with a stiff wire brush
Bring on the steel wool
Laundry soap dish soap
Paint stripper and rust remover
Anything and everything
Is fair game
When it comes
To brainwashing
.
Oh to see all the liberated crud
Spiralling down the drain
The endless lies disappearing
Like the tears a baby cries
Leaving nothing but pure white light
Clean as virgin snow
To return no more
The images of children
Burned by napalm
Skin hanging in flaps
Mayhem murderous madness
Artillery and tanks
Car bombs spattered blood
Airliners tearing through towers
In great glowing balls of fire
Burning, burning
The awful stench of death
Memories of missiles in factories
Steel gray angels of death
Thundering through the skies
A pregnant woman cries pure terror
While those that profit most
Swear there is no other way
But any ignorant fool can see
That power corrupts
And greed is an ugly seed
.
Still day after day after day
After day the horror continues
We live in a constant state of fear
The fifty-first state
And I would wash it all away
Today wash all away
Wash away
Brain washed
And vanish down the drain
.
.
.

Dreaming of a Better World

.
.
A Better World
.
.
It was one of those lovely autumn afternoons
Where the rains of the day before
Had given way to washed pale blue skies and sun
The trees still had enough leaves remaining
To provide some more serious raking work
But she was out in the yard
Running from patches of shade
To bright green sunlit grass
Blond hair unbrushed
Brilliant in the golden radiant light
I stood still as one transfigured
.
She had one of those pink bottles in her hand
Full of soap solution
In her other hand the plastic ring attached to the cap
She was blowing bubbles as best she could
Five years old and dancing her private dance
Screwing up her face and blowing
For all she was worth
No bubbles coming stamping her foot
Shaking her butt in five year old frustration
Dipping the ring in the soap again
This time blowing softly
Her lips pursed as if for a kiss
And a long stream of beautifully round bubbles erupts
She shakes her hair with joy
Running after the floating swirling worlds of light
Pure magnificent five year old delight
.
Then looking up
Seeing me at the window
Leaning with forehead rested on raised hand
She stands up tall
Throws her shoulders back
Raises her right hand to right eyebrow
And gleefully shouts, “Garde à vous !”
.
And my heart expired my heart went out
I only had one wish one terrible dreadful futile wish
I wished I could have offered her another world
Ten times more beautiful
And a thousand times kinder than this one
Something akin to the radiant orbs she launched
Unleashed from her bottle of soap
Upon the autumn breeze
.

Between Two Islands

This has nothing to do with anything, it just appeared out of the blue one day... but will anyone have the patience to read it ?
.
In fact, this was one of the first posts I did last September when I first started to blog, but am re-cycling it to the present time in response to a question asked by GG over at Not Waving But Drowning this evening, which was "Where's your spiritual home, and why?" Well, this is it . . .
.
.

Between Two Islands
.
This has been brewing for a long time…
For centuries now ?
Or maybe just a minute or two ?
The span of my life ?
When was that ?
Since birth I have traveled in time
But I always return when it’s time to be still
To the place between two islands
.
I know where it is
Those of you who know me
May guess where it is
You strangers out there
Who will never read this
And never know me
(Why would you want to ?)
Will never know where it is
Maybe it doesn’t exist at all
Maybe I dreamed it
Dreamed it up, dreamed it down
But whatever the case, upper case
Lower case, staircase
Mental case for a caseworker
It is a place we all need
A place we should be able
To dream of, dream about
A place we should all be able to go to
However impossible that may be
.
And I hope I never see you there
You hungry hordes hunched over your hotlines
Your coffee cups your super VGA monitors
Your newspapers your highways your movies
Your money your madness
I banish you all to endless night
If you know not how to dream
If you yearn for nothing more
Than membership in the hungry horde
Good god, go take your gold card
And buy the membership
Membership has privileges you know
With every purchase you grow farther
From the place between two islands
.
And that is how it should be
I don’t want to see you there
And there must never be a parking lot
No hot dog vendor on the site
Of my grandfather’s grave
He lies nearby and listens
When the mist falls on the marsh
In the breaking dark before dawn
He walks with the fog
He knows the cattail dance
And could show you the blackbird’s nest
Or where the turtle sleeps
He could reveal many such secrets
But chooses not to now
The long sleep was too enticing
My grandmother could tell you
She knows many tales
But spends her days dreaming
Of the long sleep
And is already more than half way there
The last time I saw her she hardly knew me
I had to tell her I am your child’s child
The child of your child
A faint light flickered of understanding
In her hazy eyes
And then she asked me if
I had graduated from high school yet
Me nearly thirty-three
One day soon she will slip
Into the long sleep
And walk with the fog before dawn
That hangs thick on the marsh
Stirred by the whispering breeze
In the place between two islands
.
What has always amazed me most
For a short while each time I return
And follow the sandy trail through the woods
To the point where it forks and one side
The one hardly ever traveled by
Leads out into the marsh
To the first island
Which is where you first start to notice
How quiet it is out there
Your feet make little noise
On the sand and pine needles
Even the occasional call of a jay or cardinal is muted
The sense of stillness, the serenity, is stunning
But what amazes me given the proximity
To certain large cities
Is that once you emerge
From the cedars and pines
On the first island
Into the space between two islands
There is no sign of man
No road. No houses. No telephone poles.
No billboards, hotels, motels, restaurants
Not a single fence.
Rarely a vapor trail follows a barely audible jet
High away above the islands
But the people up there
Are too ensconced in their martinis and novels
And fear of falling out of the sky
To even suspect what dreamland
Lies below them
.
No sign of man
The eye drinks in the thick green bands
Of the pine woods on the far island
And the pine, cedar, and holly of the woods
Way down on the far side of the marsh
But mainly the golden sea of marshgrass and cattails
Broken only by the lone juniper halfway
Between two islands
The space seems vast
The sky above equally so
Vast and still and no sign of man
This may be the only place
I have ever known real peace
In houses there is always something
That needs doing
We become slaves at home
To all the trappings of modern life
That we have learned we can’t live without
Our computers and VCRs and ovens
The rented movies the phone that rings and rings
The mirrors and clothes and books
The nagging sense that time is escaping
Time that brings each personal reckoning day
A little closer
.
The working world is an incessant nightmare
Driven by cancerous greed
Governed by constant stress
Full of days spent peering into haunted eyes
Faces where the pain is painful to see
People who gave up so much for so little
Apart from home and work
What else is there ?
I don’t go to church

I don't understand

How people can speak with such certainty

With such finality

About subjects which seem so uncertain to me

In my younger days I used to say
I couldn’t stomach such monstrous lies from
Pious pretenders steeped in pure invention
But I have tempered my language a little since

People believe what they need to

The world of entertainment is hollow too
Brief sustenance the stuff of illusions
We have become a race that lives
For the next movie
The next distraction to help us forget
The worthlessness of our age
And there is nothing you can buy
In any mall or mail order department store
That is going to help you
That will ease the burden
No drink no drug will make a difference
It is all still there when you come out of the coma
Great art will sometimes inspire
Calm and hope
That somehow things will get better
But unless you are very wealthy
You generally cannot surround yourself
With fine art and must observe it
Somewhere where you are not alone
.
The only place I have known
True and rejuvenating solitude
Has been walking in the marsh
Between two islands

.
In recent years
I am the only one to venture there
The trail across the stretch of marsh
Before the first island is usually wet
And overgrown, not to mention
The mosquitos that could eat a man alive
In the hot coastal summers
But I go in the fall and winter
And spring, the cooler times
The frozen time in the winter
When you can walk
Out across the marsh away from the trail
Without worrying about sinking in
Up to your knees
Once while looking around
Out on the far island
I found an old spring trap
Sign that some other human had passed this way
But did he know it as I do
Did he love it for what it is
This place between two islands ?
.

Did he ever sit by the juniper
In the middle of the marsh
And watch the sunset turn the sky
Over the distant woods
Into a blaze of molten gold
Riches beyond a banker’s wildest dream
No gold card privilege
Will ever open the door for you
On such unequaled bliss
Get in your gas guzzling car and drive all day
You will never find a place like this
Between two islands
Give up go home
I don’t want to see
Any of the hungry horde
Set foot here

This is sacred ground
There is no hamburger joint
And no pizza place delivers here
No cold beer to go
Nowhere to go from here
This is the end of the line
And the peace is overwhelming
In the place between two islands
.

Then again, if you have read this far

Maybe you are ready

Perhaps we could go together

To the place between two islands

.

A Drive Down Memory Lane . . .

.
.
. . The Vanishing Point
.
Sometimes it does not take much
Just the faintest suggestion
The softest touch of a hint
To bring the memories flooding back
And this sometimes is why we blog
To exorcise those ghosts ?
To let a bit of one's true self show ?
Fearing to say too much
Wanting to say more
Hiding, hiding
.
I wonder some nights
If I may be a cat
With nine lives
Some of them gone by now
Which could explain
Why certain days
I simply hate to drive
.
The road through the forest
Is long and straight
Built by Romans to last
Even if the builders did not
As I drive that road at night
At the very far visible end
There is often a point of light
The vanishing point
Invariably it says to me
You too will reach
Your personal vanishing point
One day, one night
Yet I drive down that road
Do not turn back
And the vanishing point
Draws near but recedes
For now
.
If nine lives had I
Then at least four are gone
In four wrecked cars
I was a passenger in
Which could explain
Why I hate to drive
Flying is safer by far
Even if sadly
Entire aeroplanes
Sometimes fall
From the sky
.
Age 19, an afternoon
Spent with friends
At a racing track
Stupid kid stuff
Driving home from there
The driver thought
He was still on the fast track
He missed the second half
Of an "S" turn at 60 mph
Hit a tree bounced off
Slid up the road 75 feet
The guy next to me
In the back seat
Fractured his skull
I was just dazed
Fell down when
I tried to walk away
From the smoking wreck
.
Age 20 after a college football game
Spent drinking whiskey in the stands
Four idiots piled in a car to go
Who knows where
One minute later the car plowed
Into a bridge pillar
One idiot from the back seat, me,
Flew forward and broke
The rearview mirror off
The windshield
The next morning he was found
Lying in a dormitory hall on the floor
With a white chalk outline around him
Like the corpse after a shooting
Having no idea how he got there
Fortunately, a girl took him in
And nursed his wounds that day
.
Age 25, hitchhiking in France
A BMW to take me from Macon
to Bourg en Bresse was t-boned
At a blind intersection
The driver was hospitalized
Me, I just had a sore neck
The car was totaled
The frame was bent
Broken glass all over
Car wrecks are an awful sound
Usually preceded by
The protesting squeal
Of rubber burning
From skidding tires
.
Age 28, coming home
From a visit to the grandparents' place
My father was driving
Trying to pass a pick up truck
On a back New Jersey road
When the truck turned left
Down a side road
The impact was hard
And sent us into the trees
I had been trying to sleep
In the back seat
Took off flying into
The back of the front seats
Wrenched the neck again
To this day
Have trouble sleeping in cars
And my neck still hurts
When it rains
.
Four wrecks as a passenger
Never as the driver
But that could change tomorrow
Driving is an awful lottery
Far more dangerous
Than flying
Sometimes I think
I can taste my death
And it tastes like blood
From punctured lungs
Coming out in fine drops
Around broken teeth
How many lives do I have left
I wonder
As I gaze up the road
At the vanishing point. . .
.
.
And I apologize if in writing this and posting these pictures here that I took in a junkyard, if I have appalled anyone; but car wrecks are an appalling subject, and more people have been victims of crashes than one might imagine, with varying degrees of gravity, and varying levels of post traumatic stress disorder. My intention is not to be maudlin or depressing, this is catharsis. This is therapeutic. These days I try to forget all that, and try to laugh over the little pleasures in life. . . but some days, the memories are there, and will not easily leave.
.
So tell me, has it ever happened to you ? Are we not lucky to still be here ? Yes, I think . . .
.





















Hard to believe this was ever actually an automobile at all . . .
.
































The scrapyard blues . . .
.


















.
.

Of Blogs and Barometers . . .

To see what reminded me of this today, please take a look at a most remarkable blog named "A Majority of Two", and the piece about Traditions . . . centered on tapping on a barometer every day to see which way the wind is going to blow, figuratively. I wrote this piece shortly after my father in law passed away. He was a sailor, and as such, always kept an eye on the weather. . . and the barometer. We also had a barometer in the house where I grew up, and tapping on it was a regular habit.
.
.
.
. . . Ancient Barometer
.
.
Time has come to a halt
The clock has ceased its tireless ticking
The barometer has taken over
A changing of the guard of sorts
The needle turns from clock wise to counter
From "Fair Sailing" to "Under the Weather"
.
On the ancient barometer
Over the terminal bed
The needle has dropped
From "He is Dying" to "He is Dead"
And tomorrow the needle
Will continue dipping
To "He is Buried, He is Gone
The Rest of You Must Carry On"
.
The ancient barometer over the bed
Cried out for all to see
"He has Lived, but He is Dead"
Even the wounds
On the silver-plated Christ
Re-opened and bled
But the soul of the beloved
Has taken to his heels and fled
To some place unknown
Where only those called may go
.
The barometer, ancient barometer
Hanging silent over the bed
Quiet as the endless rows of bones
That line the Paris Catacombs
Has not budged these thirty years past
Frozen as a face carved in wax
The needle fixed on "Stormy Seas"
But rising soon to "Peace at Last"
No breath no motion no heart to beat
Like a long forgotten question
One no longer needs to ask
The ancient barometer
Has given up the task
.
.
.

Still Life in Stones . . .

This could be a self portrait
This tattered scrap of poster
Torn down to make room for the new
Thrown on the ground in a vacant lot
Strewn with stones
Discarded outcast cast off
Left for dead
.
Yet it is so plain to see
His dreams of flying
Soaring off to distant lands
Dreams of angel wind
Scented with jasmin
Patchouli and hemp
Those dreams
Will never die
Like a hawk
He has already circled off
Beyond the dazzling horizon
.
.





















.
.

A Door Dream . . .

.
Ancient stone cut from the heart of the Earth
Ancient walls raised by the hands of men long since dead
Ancient stairs could have been cut perfectly straight but
Were laid out in flowing curves concentric long ago
Rough hewn cobbles pave the walk
An opening in the wall calls
Imagine passing through
Never turning back
Nothing would ever be the same
Through the gate
Lies a land of dreams
I've been dreaming of it
For ages
But had lost this image
It had lain in a drawer
Neglected
For year after year after year
Finding old piles of negatives
Finally looking at them
Is like recovering from amnesia
The fragrance of memory returns
The feeling at the moment the shutter snapped
Twenty years ago
The opening in an ancient wall
Calling beckoning beguiling
The siren song of the unknown
The land of dreams beyond . . .
.
.































.
.

Lost and Found . . .

The population of photos in these pages seems to be growing exponentially, while the poem population is dwindling in proportion, even though the heading on the blog says it would be both. . . well, am going to take a small step toward rectifying that imbalance here . . . writing is almost as important a part of my life as photographing and playing guitar. . . whether or not it's any good is another question altogether. . .
.
.
.
. . . . .Lost and Found
.
.
.
In the super market this afternoon
In the colossal market of this day
Where humans scurry like ants
On their various wonderful missions
I was pushing a shopping cart
Heavy with bottled water bottles of wine
Food for cats toothpaste breakfast cereal
All the trivial things we need to live
In this day and age
Talking lightly with my wife of twelve years
Vacation coming to escape the cold gray
The hanging gray fog outside
What kind of cheese to buy
I was studying the camembert and brie
When I noticed she had stepped away
I went to the end of the aisle
Looked in all directions
But no wife could I see
Other women and men some with children
Going about their various quests
Marvelling over the multitude of choice
Forty flavors of toothpaste
Thirty brands of beer
Cookies and jellies galore
Nowhere could I spy my wife
Suddenly I was lost and totally alone
The super store had swallowed her whole
I was wondering where to go
Hemmed in by shopping carts
Pushed by vapid women
Hesitating over twenty three varieties
Of tomato sauce
I wanted to let loose a long mournful howl
From the depths of my forlorn soul
And then suddenly she was back again
Brandishing a large jar of pickles
Everything was OK
And the sun was calling
All the way from the islands
.
.
.

Pieces # 44 . . .

How many people are waking up these days
And finding their life in pieces ?
Might have never seen it coming
And then one day you are out on the street
Because the bank took your house back
Because the company took your job
Or simply because the earth trembled
And shook you out of bed
As your nice neat walls
Came crumbling and tumbling down
Around you
Left your life in pieces
And all the kings horses
And all the kings men
One day the word comes back from a doctor
Who wants to do more tests
One day the mailman delivers a writ
One day that nice car you were driving
Ends up in the ditch
A bomb went off at the market
And you never saw it coming
Not for one second
Caught you flat on your feet
Put you on the run
To some new horizon
Where with a pot of glue
You can try with what little time
You can find
To put the pieces
Back together again
If you can. . .
And don't lose any
Of the pieces. . .
.
.





















.
.

A Poem Per Day Keeps The Shrink Away. . .

It's been a while since the last poem was published here. . . photos and comments about them are not all there is in life. . . had the guitar out too yesterday, singing some old favorites like : Mr Bojangles (Jerry Jeff Walker), Landslide (Fleetwood Mac), Hello In There (John Prine), Althea (Grateful Dead), All Around This World, and so forth. . . and even watched some TV last night for the first time in ages, caught the 1984 version of The Bounty mutiny story, with Anthony Hopkins, Mel Gibson, Daniel Day Lewis, and Liam Neeson.
.
.
. . . The Heritage
.
.
An old woman died
A month or two or three ago
I really don’t know when
I did not know her
Still don’t know her name
But for some reason
I am unable to explain
A roomful of her furniture
Found its way into our house
A heritage of sorts
One that nobody wants
From a distant great aunt
Once or twice or thrice removed
My wife and her eight siblings
Don’t want to be bothered
By trying to carve a chair
Into nine pieces fair and square
Splitting hairs
Over who shall have what
Finally they decided
To cart the whole lot off
And sell it
.
In the meanwhile
My living room has been invaded
By a sorry lot of upholstered chairs
With sagging seats
Harboring hints of ancient farts
And rosewater perfume
No two the same color style or size
Like a pack of scoundrel wild dogs
They eye me accusingly
Sizing me up for future diseases
Knowing they are unwanted
.
When no one was watching
I gave the awful crimson one
A swift kick that sent it
Skittering across the floor
Yipping angry yips of indignation
.
The large carton of silver cutlery
Looks like a refugee from a burglary
I honestly don’t know why it’s here
Tempting me to betray my thin vermeer
Of manners and morals and lies
.
The small bedside table
Has the air of a saucy siamese cat
I may just cut its throat
Lay its carcass on a silver platter
Carve it into neat wooden slices
And throw them on the fire
.
Worse than uninvited guests
Who won’t go home
I would gladly take a shotgun
Blow the ancient dresser to bits
Put the whole posse of mangy curs
Out of their misery
Then sweep up the floor
And get on with my life
.
I thought I was going to break my back
Hauling that damn dresser out the door
A curse on ancient great aunts
Lurking in the wings of family history
Anonymous until the day of their death
When all their impossible accumulation
Of hideous furniture and cracked china
Come calling unbidden unwanted
In the form of a haphazard heritage
.
.
.

Canary Dream House . . .

I don't know about you
But there are plenty of times
When I would love to just head for the hills
Abandon my car
Never to hold a filling station pump handle again
Abandon the washing machine and TV
The credit card the bank account the mortgage
And all the other junk of modern life
Take the girls and head for the hills
And try to start over
Try to start fresh
Start again
Learn how to drink water from cactus
And to grow what we need to eat
And to live in a house like this one
A dream house. . .
.
.
(photo taken in 1994 on island of Tenerife)
.
















.
.

Time For A Poem. . .

This has nothing to do with anything... just a piece that came up out of the woodwork a few years back. . .
.
.
............ Odyssey
.
.
Homer Stern phoned me last night
He had been called up
By his local Marine Corps Reserve commander
And given twenty four hours to report
He was debating the pros and cons
Of that old psychological dilemma
Fight or Flight
His pessimism was apparent
He says to me, “Joe, I know one thing…
The results of the census must be in.
And the bottom line is
That there are too many of us
For our own good,
So some of us have got to go.
And since they can’t take thirty or
Forty thousand of us out and gas us, quietly,
They are going to let Saddam Hussein do it instead.
He was the low bidder
On a secret Pentagon contract for the work.
Quadaffi in Libya wanted the job,
But he wanted too much.
Iraq could do it cheaper.
The deal wasn’t too hard to arrange.
It involved payments through two front countries
And some fairly complicated trading in oil futures
On the New York Mercantile Exchange.
But hell, nothing is impossible these days.
Rumor has it that Ollie North was hired on
As a consultant.
Anyway, Hussein was paid in advance,
And agreed to send a formidable military circus
Into Kuwait just to keep things on the up and up.”
.
I asked Homer how he knew all this
When even Ted Koppel on ABC News
Was obviously still in the dark.
He said, “Joe, you are probably
Not going to believe this, but
I went to the airport yesterday
To check on flights to Vancouver
And who should appear in the departure area
But Jesse Jackson !
With his own little travelling circus.
In the confusion of juggling luggage
I noticed a bible fall out
Of his carry on flight bag
.
And Homer was nimble, Homer was quick
And I picked it up and made off with it.”
.
“Now Joe,” he says, “This here bible,
Which is an honest to goodness
King James Authorized New American Double Standard
Just happens to be signed by George Bush.
Now you tell me what Jesse Jackson
Is doing bound for Iraq carrying a bible
Signed by George Bush.
And tucked into the bible
Was a typewritten sheet which outlined
All of the aforementioned information.”
.
I says to him, “Homer, Homer old pal,
Have you been drinking?”
He says, “Yes. Hell yes.
You’d be drinking too,” he says,
“If you knew you had to choose
Between flight meaning permanent exile
And staying to fight
Facing possible death.
I mean, let’s face it,” he says, “who wants to die
In some desert so fat Americans can continue
To drive big cars and guzzle cheap beer ?”
.
“Homer,” I ask him, “have you ever looked at death
As just another form of exile ?
Exile with honor ?”
“Yeah Joe,” he says, “but think for a minute
About all the girls in Australia.
And besides, one day I might just write
A sequel to the Odyssey.”
.
.