Mac

Near The Garden Grows

Dec 262013
 

She had a garden in the back
close beside an aging shed
in which she kept a child's sled.

She talked about her early lettuce,
her carrots and sweet peas—
all thriving things that pleased.

She spoke easily about weather
and what made her garden grow
and how best to weed and hoe.

But never did she care to say
a word about the child's old sled
that hung in the weathered shed.

Til' one day an idle thought said
carelessly, brought quite clearly
a memory felt so deeply … dearly.

Unconsciously I trust, without
intent, I spoke of winter snow
and how sleighing we would go.

My words, quickly out, quicker than
what great sadness mind could know,
dire pain that near the garden grows.

Turning to me, softly, she spoke,
pruning tool in her right hand
—the saddest face in all the land.

“Tommy, barely five that day we
went to sleigh on Northwind Hill,
a day that Fate would choose to kill.

“Squealing out with joy as down he
raced on his new Christmas sled,
until he hit a tree … and he was dead.”

Before I could utter a heartfelt word,
she had reached for new seeds to sow
where she would help them grow.

 December 26, 2013

Spontaneous Deepthink

Nov 282013
 
I am given to spontaneous interludes of deepthink
mindstuff ebbs and flows in mindsea
— morphs into realities according to my intentions.
 November 28, 2013

The Waxing Night

Sep 232013
 

Roaring fires of youth burned gloriously,
powerfully bright;
now flicker equivocally, reflectively,
in the waxing night.

 September 23, 2013

Give And Keep

Sep 072013
 

When we selectively reveal something
we selectively conceal something.
I’ll give you that and withhold this.
The virtue of the transaction
depends on its nature and intent.

 September 7, 2013

Shave It!

Jun 282013
 

busy busy talk talk
wordy wordy word stuff
puffy puffy puff brains
smarty smarty smart pants
too much thinky think think
fuzzy fuzzy brain hairs
need shavy shavy shave
with Willy Occam's Razor

Note: Occam's (or Ockham's) Razor is a principle attributed to the 14th century logician and Franciscan friar William of Ockham.

The principle states that "Entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily." The principle has been adopted and sometimes reinvented by many scientists including quantum physicists. An analogous principle would be "KISS" – keep it simple stupid.

 June 28, 2013

A Sierra Nevada Night

Sep 292012
 

I stood on the peak amidst the expanse of the moonlit, starry night, with the resplendent glory of the Sierra Nevada, windswept and cold, lungs filling full with exquisitely pure air after the hard climb.

Weakened by the long survival trek, body seeking food, the soul freedom, suddenly I was at peace in the profound beauty of the night.

No window light or human voice or face, or road or sound of sufferings’ groan was near or real in this ineffable place of truth. How odd, I thought, that such a place—cathedral of grace—lives, exists while humanity struggles to grin in the cruel grip of its inescapable pain.

Come here, I thought, come here with me now – see what I see, feel what I feel, know what I know in this moment and place. Come in to the hallowed beauty of this night.

But the night said they must come in their own time, urged me to push on to Freedom Road, to food and water—to avoid the aggressors.

It gifted me and sent me on my way to learn what I may before my inevitable return home — to the beauty of the night.

Note: This was an experience I had as a twenty year old Air Force Pilot. I had just finished the two week “Starvation Trek” in the Sierra Nevada mountains that was the second phase of the Air Force Survival School. The third and final phase was the Escape and Evasion Exercise. Earlier that night, our crew of eleven was loaded into a truck and driven to an isolated location in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada range where we were dropped off in pairs. Each pair was given a small map and a compass. Our challenge was to negotiate about 25 miles of difficult terrain while locating four partisan (friendly) checkpoints and avoiding the Aggressors (the enemy). The objective was Freedom Road, located at Stead Air Force Base near Reno, Nevada. If we managed to evade the Aggressors and cross over Freedom Road, we would have completed survival school without any further requirements. If we were captured, we would likely endure some very aggressive interrogation and notoriously rough treatment in the “POW” Camp.

A Sierra Nevada Night takes place as I and my companion reached the peak of a third or fourth high ridge at about midnight. We had been weakened by the Starvation Trek so we were physically exhausted. In case you’re wondering, we successfully crossed Freedom Road the next day.

 September 29, 2012

One Thin Dime

Sep 022012
 

Hey buddy,
can you spare a dime?
I’m sort of, temporarily,
a poet without a rhyme.

I gotta hunch you understand.
I can see it in your face. I’m
think’n you’re my kinda man,
a real gift to the human race.

I just want you to know,
this ain’t my style every day.
I’ve had my good times, but
lately they ain’t come my way.

Did I say a dime? I ain’t thinkin’
too clear. I shoulda said a buck
or a five spot’d be even better
considerin’ the size of my bad luck.

I see you’re still listenin’ to me.
That’s more than most of ‘em do.
I can’t be sure, but I think
that says a whole lot about you.

I did say a fiver, ain’t that right?
My mind ain’t what it used to be.
Course if you’re a little flush today,
a Jackson’d almost make a man of me.

But if you ain’t got it, that’s okay.
Don’t worry none. That’s life, you know,
just keeps goin’ the way it will,
good times come and good times go.

Well, you sure are quiet, I’ll say that.
Me rattlin’ on and you ain’t said a word.
Ain’t moved an inch or blinked an eye.
Makes me wonder what you’ve heard.

Okay, well … tell you what, maybe
you got problems bigger’n mine.
You never know. I’ve seen it before.
So I’m thinkin’ I’ll give you a dime.

It’s the last one I got or I’d give you more.
But sometimes a dime’s as good as a buck,
specially when a man gives all he’s got.
They say it can change everyone’s luck.

Here it is, one thin dime. It ain’t brand new,
been passed all around and lost all its shine.
But I got a feelin’ somethin’ good’s goin’ on
much bigger than this little old thin dime.

 September 2, 2012

Rage On

Jul 262012
 

Rage on, dear ones, to the end,
til’ bones and heart and soul clank
hard, roar loud at Gravesend!

Unleash yourself, make your play,
dance, prance—yack at the storm.
Race headlong in. Abuse the fray.

Do not be gentle with the Fates,
not soft or feckless, or alarmed
if you throw seven to their eight.

Sprint past what you have not.
Blind men have more than sight,
who rage on with what they’ve got.

Rage on, dear ones, in each new sun.
The hours watch, beg, and bet you on
as Gods descend to judge who’s won.

Today’s your day, the next a dream.
Now is where the magic’s made,
tomorrow—fickle Future’s scheme.

Be brave and bold, denounce your fear.
Mark the prize and then press on.
If you look back, you’ll still be here.

Rage on dear ones, with all your heart.
Your race is on, the time is short,
the bell has tolled, it’s time to start!

 July 26, 2012

The Question

Jul 182012
 

When I was a child my mother taught me
to say a prayer before I went to sleep.
“Now I lay me down to sleep …”
It taught me that my life was fragile,
could be taken away at any moment
and if it happened while I was sleeping
I hoped that God would take my soul
(Me?) and everything would be just fine—
that was, if He decided to take my soul.
(No one mentioned a guarantee.)

It was instructive and comforting … then.
I’ve had a lot of questions since “then”
but I have distilled them all into just one:
“Are You?” That’s it. It’s not complicated.
It’s not deep or profound. It is a simple
question, which remains unanswered.

I went to Sunday School. I was a choir boy.
I studied the Bible in a Methodist prep
school. I read the major philosophers—
consulted others; pastors, priests, thinkers.
I thought about and considered it all
carefully and with great diligence.

Some believers told me that God speaks
with them. I asked them how. “Do you hear
His voice?” They said, “Not exactly, I just
know.” They said, “Pray to Him and ask
him to speak to you.” I said that I had, do,
but He does not speak to me. Some told me
to keep trying, praying, and when I told them
I had tried for many years, they said I needed
to have faith. I had heard that all my life.
“You just need to have faith, Bobby.” But, I
wondered; if having faith—belief—will get
God to talk with me, then who, what else
would talk with me if I had enough faith?
Did having faith make God real? Was He
not real before faith? Where was He before
someone believed in Him?

Some said, “It’s all in the Book of God,
God’s Book. It is all there. You simply need
to believe the words in the Book.” But, I said,
“The Book was written by men who lived
thousands of years ago in a land and in a culture
far different than ours. Is it reasonable to have
faith in these men with whom we have little
in common and about whom we know so little?”

“Well,” they replied, “you see the words are not
theirs, they are the words of God. God spoke to
these men and told them what they should know
and believe and how they must lead their lives.”
“So sayeth the men,” said I.

I asked, “Which is the real Book of God for there
are many.” Each one said, “Mine, the one I believe
in. It is the true Book of God.” My Jewish friends
said that and my Christian friends said that and
my Muslim friends said that and the Rabbis and
Pastors and Imams said that.

I learned that they make war against each other
and slaughter each other to force their beliefs on
each other. That is, except the Jews. Even though
they claimed God first, I learned that they don’t
force their beliefs on anyone. They just ask to be
left alone, which hasn’t worked out well for them.
Some said their God is a god of love.

I then learned that Jews argue among Jews about
what the words in their Books mean and that
Christians and Muslims argue among themselves
over the intent and meaning in their Books.

I asked, “Was God not perfectly clear when He
told these men what they should know and believe
and do? There seems to be a great deal of confusion
about what God said.” They replied, “God was clear.
The imperfect nature of man is the cause of this
confusion.” “Then how can we trust that the words
in the Book of God are the words of God if they were
written by men and men cannot be relied upon?”
I asked.

Once again, I was reassured by each, “You can trust
my Book. It is the Word of God.”

 July 18, 2012

We Didn’t Plant Jane

Jul 182012
 

We didn't plant Jane like we did
—do with all our others. We honored
her wish and burned her body into ashes.

It's one thing to know about cremation
as something others do with the leftover,
evacuated evidence of a life once lived—
surely as meaningful as mine … or yours.
It was quite another to see Jane poured out
of a small unremarkable container onto
the damp, musty, busy forest floor behind
Herbie's house where her beloved cat
was buried. She wanted to be close to
her most loyal companion. I suspect the
sentiment was mutual.

I had known her my entire life. That means
always, from before the beginning of memory
to … when? To the pouring of the ashes?
To the precise end of our last conversation?
To the official moment of her death? – when
I was not there … could not make it in time.
To the end of memory … the end of caring?
When did I stop knowing her? Have I?

Others I've loved have died. We buried them,
placed them in airtight containers and put
them in the ground in fields of memories so
we could imagine that somehow they still
existed or would have evidence that they did.
An attempt to mitigate our loss? Disguise Death?
At least there was something left, a marker,
some words chiseled onto a piece of stone
that reassured us that we had loved them,
been loved by them … and it told others.

Jane was eight years older than I, my eldest sister.
That distanced us when we were children.
As I, tentatively, met my fellow kindergartners,
Jane was entering puberty. The distance between
five and thirteen is immense. But the distance
between fifty and fifty-eight is not much at all.
Most of us have been wrenched out of childhood,
shaped and cured by the vagaries of life, by then.

We became close friends, which is a very nice
thing for brothers and sisters. But nothing is free
in this life. That's what my mother told me.
"Nothing is free, Bobby. You'll see. There is a
price for everything."

Jane told me that she had always wanted to be a
dancer. It was a childhood dream of hers. She was
in her seventies when she told me that. And she
had other dreams that never came true. All those
years and I never knew these things about my
sister.

She wasn't bitter, just accepting—perhaps
resolved. I cried a little inside for the things she
wouldn't allow herself to cry about. Jane didn't
cry easily even when she was whipped with
the Cat-Of-Nine-Tails. It was about principles.
Jane could be stubborn.

When her son, Billy, poured her ashes onto the
dark, damp ground I thought, "Is that it? Is that
all that is left of my sister? Where are her dreams,
her laughter, her sorrow? She hasn't finished yet!"
Though she said she had. "Where are the myriad
of things of a life lived? Where is the intelligence
I saw in her eyes, the knowledge unique to her?
Where is my dear sister? How can I love her now?
How can she love me?"

Wait, we don't even have a marker! But then
markers don't last forever, either.

Mother was right. Nothing is free in this life.

 July 18, 2012
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