Updates, as 'twere

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=snNPZ4MKQBI

from the sublime (the 7th annual IBICUS workshop hosted at our school, above) to the ridiculous (the poem below), it's been a rather full week. Great to have other Symposia postings to deepen our Lenten season.

        Diet of Worms

Things bewilder, early on:

cousins who lived in Palatine

were not on Arafat’s mind

to free them from suburban

confines of Chicago; similarly,

the man called Dr King was

little like the guy who tocked

my knee to check for reflex,

ultimately fine. But my dad

enjoyed the time I mistook

the kernel of my middle name

for Martin Luther King, Jr,

as proudly I proclaimed to

whomever visited us that day.

I’m remotely ‘Martin’ for

my grandpa’s middle name,

then, more or less remotely,

for the one who stood before

the Diet of Worms, and thus

the circling of squares today.

Our retriever has a bout of

roundworm, not so bad as

these things go (his diet has

slackened, but he doesn’t

seem bewildered. Even so);

we’re at the vet, his church of

choice, inquiring how in hell

this fate befell—we feed him

like a king, a quasi Lear who

called out those who called 

him ‘everything’, cognizant

a cur like ours will die in no

time, not to say he’ll soon be

nothing. Those roundworms,

after all, have no purveyor 

of their lives, no one to bring

them to a vet, except in vials

of antiseptic, to hope to kill

eternity…of worms…tocking

the Martin Luthers in us all.

Leap Year

Every Thought...

Week 9: Leap Year

There is no easy transition from February to March: a few leftover poems, a sense of the mundane, nothing to hint at the moments ahead, even as a winter’s tale ends and the winds shift.


02/26:

To You

I wrote a poem
and left your name out
and there it hangs
a gilded frame
without a face
a pretty background
without a story.

I spent some time
thinking of rhythm
and balance
and measured out
its perfect place
upon my wall
and there it hangs.

You are the frame
you are the measure
and every time
I read my poem
I see your face
and let it hold me
a little longer

But you remain
an unspoken name
lost in a story
made of dreams
your lovely face
a figment of
a wishful song.


02/27:

She Folds My Clothes

           1

She folds my clothes,
the tailored rags
once piled in the dirt and
smell of days,
        which is to say
        she picks them up
        and separates them, cleans
        them, load by load,

these that I call
my own, not of
my soul, but nearly so:
my second skin,
        my shield from sin,
        my covering
        and saving from
        all elements and eyes,

weekly redeemed
by this routine
of flattening and
giving shape to what
        was without form
        and would remain,
        if not for this,
        a wrinkled pile of rags,

if not for one
who takes the task
of caring for me, more
than I deserve
        who tells me so,
        but knows that talk
        is cheap and love’s a chore.
        She folds my clothes.


           2
 
She folds my clothes.
I give her all
my threadbare socks and
dirty underwear,
        which is to say
        I leave them on
        the floor of lower standards,
        and forget

they are my own,
my stains, my sweat
and toil, my respons-
ibility,
        and I should be
        ashamed of der-
        ilictions, but I play
        the fool instead,

weekly relieved
of turning life
around, restoring order
to a world
        that needs reform,
        and even in
        the time it takes to write
        this silly poem,

she is the one
who does it all,
and I’m the one who
doesn’t tell her so;
        my love is cheap,
        and finding words
        is work.  And while I write,
        she folds my clothes.


02/28:

Certainty

The river is moving.  
The blackbird must be flying.
         — Wallace Stevens

          I

Winged creatures crash the corridors of spring
And call in kin from everywhere to sing
A thousand songs, all with the same refrain:
“This is our season, and we shall remain.”
At first their sound is harsh and yet in time
They bring an easy rhythm and a rhyme
To every willing ear, a melody
That fills the vernal air with “Certainty!”

And all the birds that follow share the sound
And make their own to mark their breeding ground,
Assuring anyone who comes around:
“This is our world, make note of it, and let
The record clearly show, let it be said
That every spring begins with black and red.”

         II

“— Let there be no doubt!  This is our place
and time.  We have no vagaries to chase,
no hills to climb, no valleys to endure,
no days to dream, no nights to wonder.  Here
we stand, as sure as night begins the day
and sunlight melts the snow, and here we stay;
as sure as winter ends with spring, we take
the dormant fields and sing the world awake.

Tomorrow is for such wanderers and fools
who set out from their churches and their schools
in search of something more, but in their souls
they struggle over what they want to see
and what the future holds for them.  But we
remain, reminding them of Certainty!”


02/29:

In A Plane Over The Alps, March 2015

...And I was only going here to there,
thinking my fate was somewhere far beyond
the scenery of 40,000 feet
below me. 30,000... 20... 10....

So steadily we dropped without a care
until we heard the pilot pounding on
the cockpit door, and from our side,
replete with irony: "God damn it, let me in!"

which set us all to screaming through the air
into the mountains, somewhere in between
the day dreams of our German destiny
and memories of standing on the ground

in Spain, purchasing tickets, unaware
of where an hour later we would be.


03/01:

March

March starts
like more of February;
they say it roars
but I just hear it groan
with the heaviness of
a tired coat of wool
felt warmer in December
when the wind
was not as sharp, the hope
not as brittle.

March middles like the winter’s edge;
they predicted
a revival, but the dawn
still casts its shadows
and the breeze still
blows the spirit out of me
and I can’t see
the daylight saved, the equinox
or whatever it is that happens
after Lent.

March is spent
on so many passing
celebrations,
like the day the city dyes
the river green
or the night they sit around
waiting for Elijah.
We speak of eggs and rabbits,
connecting symbols of a pagan life
to a feast of sacrifice,
but I will feel the March wind blowing,
stirring up the doubt

Until the wind dies down
and the spirit goes out.


03/02:

Fling

This playing around with words
        is a reckless fling,
A lustful binge
        and a compulsive urge;

This is my midlife crisis on the verge
Of discovery,
        the soul’s rebalancing;

This is my return to youth, remembering
Whatever whirling memories regurge
Out of the pool,
        however they emerge;

This is my search for truth, if anything
Is true, if a ring of truth can ever rise
Out of the fog
        of this pretentious surge;

These are my alibis when truths diverge
And leave me looking
        foolish in your eyes;

This is my fleeting chance to apologize
For being otherwise
        with a reckless fling.

03/03:

Moleskin 2.1: Birth

I was born in Southern Minnesota during the Kennedy years, son of a schoolteacher and a credit reporter, an only child for as long as I couldn’t remember. They say there is little, if anything, our memories can hold from the first four years, not counting what we acquire from photographs and anecdotes, and yet it is during these first years that we start to recognize our parents for who they are, we pattern ourselves indelibly on their examples and with their help we learn things we never forget: to walk, to use the bathroom, to hold a conversation. I’m pretty sure I became a Democrat in these forgotten years, even if I do not have memories of Kennedy. To this day I will not hesitate to tell you where God’s country can be found, as I have been told often enough by others. And though I do not remember a day without brothers, I know there was a time when I got all of the attention.

Looking For My Rhyme

Every Thought Is A Prayer

Week 8: A Crown Of Sonnets

This is my crown of sonnets, seven poems connected by their last and first lines, with Mathematics intertwined.  To keep it all together there is no moleskin memoir this week.

02/19:

Poetry Precedes The Poem

There was a song before this song
was sung. There was a rhyme
Before these words were ever heard.
There was a place and time
Before we found our here and now,
And there was poetry
Before we wrote our poem down.

Poetry precedes the poem, as
Creation beats within a mother’s heart
Before her child is born, as from the start
What is or is about to happen has
Forever been. Behold the poem of
A rising sun or of the world that turns
Towards its fire. Behold the fire that burns
In lovers long before they fall in love.
Behold the love. Behold the long before
And look for more. Look for the energy
Of dreamers who once flickered in the dark
Like pilots to the dawn. Keep looking for
The spirit pre-igniting every spark
Of love, of mine for you and yours for me.

02/20:

Of Love

Once one is one and only one: 
the perfect unity...

Of love, of mine for you and yours for me,
Of late I haven’t had too much to say
But I’ve been thinking lately, night and day,
Of how we fell in love; of the unity
Of falling; of the feeling constantly
Of love’s simplicity, once one is one;
Of our conviction, once we had begun;
And of our hope for continuity.
We found the lesson of a braided cord
And tied the hasta milip to our vows;
We bought the most expensive diamondry
That we and all our credit could afford,
And with a single mind did we espouse
This long traditioned bond, this poetry.

02/21:

Enchanted By The Music

There was a song before this song was sung...

This long traditioned bond, this poetry
Precedes us like the crown precedes the king
Who nods to everyone and everything
Before him. Higher than all royalty,
Positioned at the birth of history,
Before humanity began to sing
Of country and of social structuring,
God’s angels sang to us the poetry
Of lovers. Thus creation was for us
Created, as we’ve been, will ever be
Enchanted by the music of our making,
And thus we ever shall, indeed we must,
Sustain our beating hearts beyond the breaking
Rules of individuality.


02/22:

Rules Of Individuality

One unexpressed, no more, no less 
than one, will always be itself...

Rules of individuality:

 1. One marches to the rhythm of one’s heart.
 2. One strikes out on one’s own without regard
     for anything another has to say.
 3. One finds one’s way. In time one will get by
     without the other, and in time the hurt
     will turn to numbness even as the heart
     grows cold and indifferent. Inevitably
 4. One beats a drum that’s distant and devoid
     of poetry, and then eventually
     the beating stops. Another heart is broken.

These are the rules that keep the self-employed
Indentured to themselves, sounding the token
Cadence of one who dreams of breaking free.

02/23:

Cadence Of One

One added to one more is two, a plain duality...

The cadence of one who dreams of breaking free,
Stringing her notes together to complete
The measures of her heart’s determined beat
Of human bonding, singing that she may be
Heard by another heart’s humanity,
Echoes across the lonely marching field.

The cadence of one with passions unrevealed,
Finding the mystic chords of memory
Deep in his soldier’s soul so long concealed
And camouflaged, singing that he may be
More than one sounding off and keeping time,
Echoes across the lonely marching field,

Each lonely heartbeat, looking for its rhyme
Across resounding fields of poetry....

02/24:

Echoes

Y yo transmitiré... los ecos estrellados de la ola...

  “Across resounding fields of poetry
  I call your name. Across resounding fields
  I will declare the love I have for you.
  I will pronounce this love to all the world
  And I will hear your name return to me.”

  “Across resounding fields of poetry
  I will pronounce this love to all the world.
  I will declare the love I have for you.
  I call your name across resounding fields
  And I will hear your name return to me.”

  “My love, you are the reason I can sing
  At all; you are the song within my heart;
  You are the beat by which I am alive
  and every rhythm in my living soul.”

  "My love, you are the reason I can sing;
  You are the beat by which I am alive
  At all; you are the song within my heart
  And every rhythm in my living soul...”

  “My love, you are the reason I can sing...”
  “Across resounding fields of poetry...”
  “...At all; you are the song within my heart,...”
  “...The love I will pronounce to all the world;..”
  “...You are the beat by which I am alive,...”
  “...I call your name across resounding fields,...”
  “...That I would hear your name return to me...”
  “...With every rhythm in my living soul.”

02/25:

Every Rhythm

One from itself is none, the self defying gravity...

Every rhythm in my living soul,
Ever since I first became aware
Of rhythm resonating in the air
Around me, beats the passions that I feel
For you, and I am moved beyond control.

Everything I sing the wind will carry,
Every rhythm resonates to where
You are, and I begin to feel your soul
In harmony with mine, as from the start,

As all that is about to happen has
Forever been: two lovers meet in time
And find they share a purpose, find their hearts
In synchronicity and find their rhyme,
As poetry precedes the poem, as....

  There was a song before this song
  Was sung. There was a rhyme
  Before these words were ever heard.
  There was a place and time
  Before we found our here and now,
  And there was poetry
  Before we wrote our poem down.

I Q 139 - The Ant and I

In second grade my class took an IQ test. That was my first full year of school. I remember sitting on the school superintendent ' s lap - must have been no legal problem then - and reading to him when I was five. Subsequent declaration was that I could skip first grade. Later I aced the Stanford -Binet multiple -choice, true -false test. One question I missed, and I was so embarrassed about, was "A boulevard is a wide street."  I answered "no".  In my hometown boulevards were those strips of grass between the sidewalk and the curb.  Thus the typical shortcoming of any "intelligence quotient" test.  But I got a 139.

Fast forward seventy years. The Arizona afternoon was sunny and I was biking home on a thirty-mile route. There were choices to make: should I take the wide swing up Desert Bell, or the steeper, more direct route up Esperanza, or the bumpier lane along Continental?   I knew what each hill entailed, so I didn't have to scope it out.

At the corner of Esperanza and Portillo was a terra cotta bench, and I gratefully flopped down in the half-shade, taking a swig of water and looking down at the large gravel stones carpeting the ground.

Wait!  One of the stones is moving. No, it's a flat round yellow seed that is going forward. Approximately one centimeter long. No wind. But why is it moving steadily forward?

A tiny ant was propelling it. She had the seed - three times longer than her and much wider  - in her jaws, I guess, and was relentlessly transporting it where she wanted to end up.

Then she would stop, drop the seed, and go ahead without it.  Backtracking, she would check another stone, around it or over. That ant would then go back and pick up her treasure, proceeding forward until there was another route decision to make. Sometimes her detective work clearly involved at least three possible ways, and after checking each one out she always ended up on the path with least obstacles. While I watched she progressed over one meter with her valuable seed.

No way was she relying on instinct. That ant had to make choices, and good ones based on logic, eliminating less desirable paths.

How would that tiny, almost microscopic creature do on an intelligence test? Pretty well. It's just us limited mortals who need to readjust our assessment of smarts in this great world God made.

A boulevard is a wide street. All depends on the path - and the goal you have to reach.

Marilyn Jaeger,  February 19, 2016

You are in your room

You are in your room

By Dick Jaeger

PREFACE

            After driving my lawn tractor over the foundation wall of the former barn and dropping ten feet to a concrete floor face first, the EMS from Blanchardville took me by ambulance to UW Hospital in Madison.  None of this I remember, but it has been told to me.

            During my two-month stay in hospitals I have had some very strange events happen to me.  Although my wife is involved in some of these events she does not remember them.  I guess her memory is not as good as mine.

            I started in the ER where they tell me my heart stopped for six minutes and I had two heart attacks, and probably some other things that no one wants to talk about.

CHAPTER 1

            The first strange occurrence happened when I was checked into University of Wisconsin Hospital.  They had no room for me so I was assigned into a storage room, also used as a waiting room for family members of employees.  There were also homeless people and unruly kids.  I did not feel safe and I did not like these sub-par accommodations.  When my family left I thought “this is B.S.   I’m leaving.”  And I did.

            Now I’m on the street in an unfamiliar area.  Many people were on this busy street.  I am starting to think maybe leaving was not a very good idea.  It is night, it is cold, and it includes the same type of people I just escaped from.

            I found a spot on a concrete raised area to lie down.  The police came along and took me to their police station.  This too was a dumpy facility, a trailer house under the “L” tracks or under some kind of low roof overhang.  Once in the police trailer no one paid much attention to me so I decided to walk out.

            I ran into Marilyn in the street.  Thinking she would take me home was a mistake – back to the hospital.  The doors were locked and no one would respond to her knocking.  Back to  the street.  This is where I ran into one of the nurses in the hospital.  “Why here?” I thought.  “She never showed up in the hospital when I needed her.”  When I tell her I want a regular room, a different room from the one assigned, her only response was “You are in your room.”

Strange!

CHAPTER 2

            The hospitals are strange places.  Why do they move you around so often?  I have a nice room and boom! Off I go to somewhere else.  Ask a question and I’d get silly answers.  They moved me to a resort camp in Texas, at least that is what I was told or thought.

            It was strange, they had multiple buildings, and we could see cars on a highway in the distance.

            Marc O’Brien and Peg Rausch visited me there.  I was confused they even knew I was in Texas.  I thought Marc was her sister who is a nun in San Antonio, or her sister from St. Louis.  “No,” she said, “I live near Argyle.”  I did not agree.  I couldn’t figure out why she disagreed with me.

            During this time Marilyn is visiting in another room with someone.  Why did these people come all the way to Texas?  Last week they could have seen me in Madison.

            After they left – they didn’t stay long – maybe I was not the best host – I took a nap.  When I awoke, I asked the nurse when we were going back to Wisconsin.  She said, “You are in your room.”  It looked a lot like the room I fell asleep in, in Texas!  Strange things seem to happen to me.  I am confused.

CHAPTER 3

            Somehow I was on a plane flying south to a warm-weather area.  I thought we were going to Phoenix, but there was a big lake or ocean there.

            The flight down was okay.  I do not think I knew anyone.  There were some people sitting immediately in front of us that knew all the answers.  The “us” referred to were unknown people I was sitting with.  Everything was confusing.  When we landed I was told to stay on the plane as this was my room.  After everyone deplaned I asked the cleanup crew when this plane was scheduled to fly again.  I remember they told me 8:30 p.m.  This was about 6 p.m. and the plane was not going back to Wisconsin.  As was my style I got out of there in a hurry.  When I was in the airport no one could help me find my luggage.  They told me to get to my seat.  After much delay I took off.

            There were some vehicles outside and a golf cart.  I figured a golf cart would be the less serious of any of them.  The trouble I had was the golf cart would only go straight or turn right, so I went around and around this building.  I found a boat on a trailer (the body of water was adjacent to the airport building) that looked like a great place to sleep, so I did.

            When I awoke there were people critical of my choice of sleeping accommodations while still in my hospital gown.  Time to leave!  My choices were limited as I had no money or credit card with me.

            I was able to get on a plane back to Madison but when I arrived I realized I had no money for a taxi.  “Give it a try,” I thought, and a kind cabbie drove me back across Madison with the understanding the hospital would like me back so much they would pay the cab fare.  My only other choice, as I recall, I had thought of walking from the airport to the hospital.  You are right: that is a long way in a hospital gown!

            When I arrived back at the hospital I thought they would be happy to see me safe as I thought they had sent me on the trip south.  They were so unhappy with me they put me back in that crummy warehouse room I had spent the first night.

            I wonder if the cabbie ever got paid??

CHAPTER 4

            At Select Specialty Hospital I had a nice room except after a few days people started congregating in my room.  I think they were selling something; maybe it was like stuff brides would need for their wedding.  I was never clear on what was happening.  I tried to ignore the people and the activity.

            What really bugged me were a couple of little girls, 7 or 8 years old, coming to the edge of my bed and making faces at me.  It would not have been so bad but they were inches from my face when I woke up.  I had the feeling they touched my face with a feather or something similar.  I would brush my hand across my face but never felt anything.

            My complaints to the children’s mothers went for naught.

            My complaint to the staff was ignored.  They acted like I was alone in my room.  I think they only sold stuff in my room on weekends.

            You know what really bugged me.  They would turn on the TV talk shows or anything but a ball game!

CHAPTER 5

            While I was at Select Hospital I would comment on their poor housekeeping.  Every time I looked at the floor of my room or in the hall when we walked, I would see plastic tubing on the floor.  I’d push at it with my cane, but never felt anything.  I was confused.

CHAPTER 6

            Early one evening the nurse got three of us together and told us we were going to the church in the neighborhood.  I thought they were going to administer the last rites.  We were led into the basement of this old church.  It was like a cave with a big wooden round table set off near a corner.  We were seated around the table.  The old priest was behind us, and we couldn’t see his helpers either.  They kept to the background.

            We were asked to tell the three things we would miss at mass after we died.  I rebelled a little.  I thought, “This is the dumbest thing.”  I told them “the host, body of Christ.”  I did not want to give them the satisfaction of telling them “the blood of Jesus” as the Madison Diocese doesn’t believe lay people should be offered the Blood of Christ every day or every weekend.  After that I clammed up and was going to wait them out.  I dozed off.  When I awoke one of my wrists was attached to the table by a strap.  I sensed the priest still behind me.  I went back to sleep.

            When I woke up again my wrist was freed and I was all alone.  I investigated the basement.  It sure seemed like a cave.  The only lighting came from a few candles.

            I can’t remember what happened next, but later I awoke in my hospital room and people were coming in again to start selling stuff.  I should have left again, but I did not like my experience in the church basement/cave.  Those people were weird.

CHAPTER 7

            This chapter is short.  I do not know what exactly happened so do not expect the detail of some of my other experiences.

            One evening two men came into my room.  I know there were others in the hall.  They told me they needed me to assist them in some undercover operation.  I figured it had something to do with my street experience in Chapter 1.  No one would tell me my role.  Off we go.  This was so undercover there was no car, no nothing.

            The next thing I know we are back at the hospital with me being thanked for my great help.  I knew undercover work was secret, but to have finished a job and not realize even being involved was more than I could understand.  When they me left they told me, “Do not tell anyone about this operation”, so I’ve just completed a chapter of not telling the reader anything.

CHAPTER 8

            One of the doctors I had after my accident was so famous he had offices in Madison and New Jersey.  Since his Madison office had no appointment times available we decided to go to New Jersey to see him.  We flew out.  Dan Truttmann had a business out there and told us we could use one of his little cottages.  This worked well, as it included a little car, a silver convertible.  We awoke early and decided to drive around, get the lay of the land.  There was snow on the ground so we were happy no one else was on the road (remember, we are driving a convertible, and I like the top down!)  We found this resort area with very nice, small cottages.  All of a sudden Marilyn turns into this driveway and into an open garage.  She said, “This is the house number of the doctor’s office.”  The garage door closes and “puff!” we are in his waiting room, still in the convertible. 

            When I asked the nurse where we were, she said, “You are in your room.”  There are all kinds of people around.  I think they are smoking funny cigarettes and something strange is going on.  I was really confused.  I do not know if I ever did see the doctor.  The one guy who talked to me said he was the doctor but he seemed as weird as all the others.

            Marilyn came back from somewhere else to this office/cabin/garage.  I said, “Let’s get out of here.”

            We flew back to Madison.  I don’t remember this.  I was to go into UW Hospital.  The gurney I was on was taken up a steep incline on a cable car.  Near the top we had to take the elevator.

            Since I had left the hospital to go to New Jersey without approval they did not want to let me back in.  We worked that out.  The nurse that was to remove my catheter was not successful.  I had to leave the hospital with a catheter the same way we came in.  The guards who had let us in were not about to let us out.  As far as I know I am still sitting in the hallway near the exit wondering what I’m going to do now.

            Now whenever I talk to my wonderful wife about New Jersey, the gondola, or anything about this experience she claims no knowledge.  I do not believe I was alone, but I do feel I experienced all the events in these past chapters.

September 25, 2015, UW Hospital

                                        

                                                

CHAPTER 9

            Early in my stay at UW Hospital the nurses put me in a wheelchair to take me to a hardware store or Home Depot kind of store.  It also could have been a contractor’s supply store by the products I saw: tires, wheelbarrows and some big equipment I couldn’t identify.

            We were there quite awhile.  I wanted to get back to my room.  I was told we were at the hospital.  I know we were not at the hospital, as I could see other commercial buildings out the window.  Marilyn was there.  She does not remember the hardware store, so I guess she was busy worrying about me.  There were other people with us, so if you were there let me know so I’m not so confused.

            I remember seeing our friend Ron Syse in the next aisle.  He did not see me.

            The delay of getting me back to my room was frustrating.  All they would say is “You are in the hospital.”  A hospital does not look like a hardware store, unless they had me in the maintenance department warehouse.   Why would they do that?

PS added by Marilyn.  This vision occurred Friday, September 25.  A sweet little CNA – can’t remember her name now – wanted to bring Dick out to the old ER entrance which was on the third floor of the B Wing where Dick spent his first six days in the Trauma Life Center.  My sister Reeni was with us, and another nurse.  We stayed outside on the sidewalk for quite awhile, enjoying the sunshine.  I think the perception of the hardware store started as Dick was being wheeling down the corridor, and continued outside.  We definitely did not go beyond that hospital sidewalk!

                          February 15, 2016, Florence, AZ

        Positive proof of prayers and good medical attention!

            

Working Out

Every Thought Is A Prayer

Week 7: Mathematics

The month of February continues, everything centered around the day of hearts.  In this capsule, I am still head over heals.  In retrospect, love would require work, though maybe, and too often, more than I gave it. 

02/12: At The Bus Stop
02/13: On A Park Bench
02/14: Motion Pictures
02/15: Long Ago
02/16: Braided Cord
02/17: Mathematics
02/18: Moleskin 1.7: Groundwork


02/12:

At The Bus Stop

At the bus stop, as the city flies by,
A local pair, a man and a woman,
In love without words, married I suppose,
Sit quietly, simply biding their time,
She with modest make-up and a wool-blend coat,
He with a two-tone polyester suit,
Each with the same haircut, close to the scalp,
Neither one concerned with the day ahead,
And every morning, never fail, they’re here,

As am I, but I’m just a passerby,
Rushing to my world an hour away
While they hold the moment: this is their pond;
I don’t really know them, barely see them,
But something tells me I would miss them
If ever they were gone.


02/13:

On A Park Bench

On a park bench on a city streetside,
Backwards to traffic, facing a storefront
On an overcast afternoon, between
The sun and rain, breezeless, pleasantly warm,
In this time of waiting, they take a chance
To stop and sit and simply talk awhile.
Pedestrians buzz by in ones and twos,
All to themselves, not really noticing
The soft spectacle of husband and wife
Or wife and husband, wed to each other,
Talking of children, thoughts of the future,
Where they are going and what’s for dinner.
Home is a dozen miles away.  Life is
Routine.   Love is here and time, for now, is kind.


02/14:

Motion Pictures

Some movies leave you feeling sad
worked up or happy, but they leave you there
retwisting scenes, revisiting the air
and sorting out the ugly good and bad.
They try to linger in your soul.
The best films take a hold and don’t let go:
they dare to move beyond the picture show,
they grip you past the credit roll
and draw you on the empty screen
the winner relishing the victory,
the tragic hero bearing the defeat,
the voyager letting where you’ve been
and what you’ve seen ultimately
define you far beyond your theater seat.

You will remember this.    

                                  Some shows
are only popcorn, local strangers all
faced in the same direction, a big wall
reflecting light-and-shadowed rows
of patronage, a flattening screen
that turns all living colors into grey.
The worst ones don’t have anything to say
but good flicks scream in every scene:
They sing and laugh and make you think
and turn you unexpectedly
into a kindred soul.  As light projects
on screen, as sound tracks into sync,
as motion makes its own reality,
you find your spirit in the cineplex.


02/15:

Long Ago

Long ago

when it felt like
the day was young
every morning

the sun would rise
on a world of
possibilities
and I would wake up
smiling and you
would be there beside me

with an arm to keep
me there a little
longer.


02/16:

Braided Cord

We learned the lesson of the braided cord,
two strands strong, three unbreakable
according to scripture, the old testimonial
inspiration woven into our lives
     with romantic embellishment
     spun from a preacher’s words.

We kept an invitation from our wedding day
in a frame, hung it on our bedroom wall
as a daily reminder of the ongoing occasion,
which we enhanced with an inimitable piece
of that stranded cord not easily broken
     and lovingly spun: we invited, we wed,
     but it was you who framed, reminded, enhanced.

                                             We needed this cue
in our feeble youth, and in the sharpness of age
we need it still, something more to celebrate
than fading photographs and anniversaries
     and this is true: my need is yours,
     your need is ours, what time will never fade.

The snapshots are in boxes, the memories
are gathering dust, but the braided truth remains.


02/17:

Mathematics

based on passages from Walled Gardens

1*1=1

Once one is one and only one:
the perfect unity;
one less than this is emptiness.

One finds one cannot be
without the other; none’s the lover
who can love alone,

but when two lovers come together
and become their own
identity they start to see

the journey they’ve begun,
their heart and mind as one combined:
once one is one is one.


n/n=1

One unexpressed, no more, no less
than one, will always be
itself, the integer of

individuality
existing to exist. One who
insists without a sound

on keeping his position is
a shadow on the ground,
no more, no less than emptiness,

a countenance unknown,
a spirit unsuspected:
one unmoving, one alone.


1+1=2

One added to one more is two,
a plain duality

and nothing less than two, unless
each looks for unity

receptively. Two cannot see
as one as long as one

turns from the other; none’s the lover
who can love alone,

and lonely thus, there is no us
to see for “me” and “you”;

But if there’s “us,” there’s one. We must
adjust our point of view

Or be as lonely marchers, one
plus one forever two....


1-1=0

One from itself
is none, the self
defying gravity

to find the place
that has no place,
a new reality

of nothingness.
It comes to this:
leave everything behind,

the ground you stand,
the world you wander,
every gravity

that spins you ‘round
and weighs you down;
believe that there can be

somewhere a love
that is enough,
a love that will allow

one to be none,
two to be one:
the perfect lovers' vow.

|1-(1+1)*1|=|(1-1)+(1*1)|=|1-1+1*1|=1!


02/18:

Moleskin 1.7: Groundwork

So now I have the groundwork, the riverbank work, for the first several chapters of my story: I was born, I am alive. I have an audience who shares my moment and a studio that gives me peace. And I have an opening prayer to accept what I've been given. After this may come those chapters on love and faith and health and pride and humility ---maybe, if I am drawn to write that far and if there is still ink in my pen. And if, of course, I am whimsically stirred to remember those big daunting subjects when the time comes and the blank pages are before me. Or maybe, on that whim, I will simply set the pen down then and there, and let the opening chapters speak for themselves, being the heart and soul of what I remember. Let it be, one way or the other. But let me begin.