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.
Friday, February 19, 2016
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
Wednesday, February 17, 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!
|
Friday, February 12, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
2016 S2L2AAA
It's time again to get our annual lists up... First of all, though, Dan, I know I missed your birthday...sorry...I'm a right bastard for having failed again in this regard. You will have both a Christmas compilation CD and, of course, a copy of my 2016 submission listed below given to you--I may even send these to you so you don't have to wait on them 'til your next visit. The Christmas compilation also served as a gift to Pastor Braband, who had retired after the last Christmas Eve service of 2015--a 2-CD collection of Christmas tunes called 'The Sacred and the Secular'...I've really been enjoying that one quite a bit, even out of season.
RE this project--I've been in discussion with more and more people about it, and most are drawn into the dialogue because it's such a captivating endeavor. I've received several compilations from others, redid one to include songs that were somehow scratched off what she and her husband had loaned to me, and I have put together one compilation and am in the process of putting together another for a couple of people who have submitted their lists to me. And one of the songs on the following is inspired directly by one of those individuals. I won't say which song here, but I'm sure I'll include that info on my liner notes for the finished product. Feel free to guess which one it is, though (Jon, you probably already know).
My 2016 list, well-tested, heard repeatedly, and absolutely songs I can listen to again and again, this is the order of the songs as they will be on my CD:
1. The Pink Panther Theme - Henry Mancini & His Orchestra
2. My City Was Gone - The Pretenders
3. Would I Lie To You? - Eurythmics
4. Spanish Caravan - The Doors
5. Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown) - The Beatles
6. Weather Channel - Sheryl Crow
7. Goodbye Blue Sky - Pink Floyd
8. From The Beginning - Emerson, Lake, & Palmer
9. Since I've Been Loving You - Led Zeppelin
10. Carrion - Fiona Apple
11. The Chain - Fleetwood Mac
12. Spinning - Zero 7
13. Does Everyone Stare - The Police
14. Redemption Song - Bob Marley & The Wailers
15. Cancion Del Fuego Fatuo - Paco DeLucia & Ramon de Algeciras
16. Chain Lightning - Steely Dan
17. Carpet Crawlers - Genesis
18. This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) - Talking Heads
I don't have a distinct timeframe yet, but I'm looking forward to finishing the 2016 project and sharing it with any/all interested; and I've already got some ideas brewing for my 2017 list!
Blessings, everybody!
RE this project--I've been in discussion with more and more people about it, and most are drawn into the dialogue because it's such a captivating endeavor. I've received several compilations from others, redid one to include songs that were somehow scratched off what she and her husband had loaned to me, and I have put together one compilation and am in the process of putting together another for a couple of people who have submitted their lists to me. And one of the songs on the following is inspired directly by one of those individuals. I won't say which song here, but I'm sure I'll include that info on my liner notes for the finished product. Feel free to guess which one it is, though (Jon, you probably already know).
My 2016 list, well-tested, heard repeatedly, and absolutely songs I can listen to again and again, this is the order of the songs as they will be on my CD:
1. The Pink Panther Theme - Henry Mancini & His Orchestra
2. My City Was Gone - The Pretenders
3. Would I Lie To You? - Eurythmics
4. Spanish Caravan - The Doors
5. Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown) - The Beatles
6. Weather Channel - Sheryl Crow
7. Goodbye Blue Sky - Pink Floyd
8. From The Beginning - Emerson, Lake, & Palmer
9. Since I've Been Loving You - Led Zeppelin
10. Carrion - Fiona Apple
11. The Chain - Fleetwood Mac
12. Spinning - Zero 7
13. Does Everyone Stare - The Police
14. Redemption Song - Bob Marley & The Wailers
15. Cancion Del Fuego Fatuo - Paco DeLucia & Ramon de Algeciras
16. Chain Lightning - Steely Dan
17. Carpet Crawlers - Genesis
18. This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) - Talking Heads
I don't have a distinct timeframe yet, but I'm looking forward to finishing the 2016 project and sharing it with any/all interested; and I've already got some ideas brewing for my 2017 list!
Blessings, everybody!
Saturday, February 6, 2016
pheasants in attendance
The Lenten journey begins anew. Last Sunday's sermon on the sower and the seed got me thinking of the ways the wayward plans (of mice and men) may still pertain to Gospel guidance. We are rooted in good soil, if the pharisee within each one of us looks to uproot the weeds of our own discerning. Here is a draft of keeping that faithful process 'real':
What handfuls of provender had
to draw deep into a sermon
on Luke 8, a pastor looking
on at pheasants in attendance,
prone to keep their nesting habits
privately, as they’re meant to be.
The town-to-town relay was like
an ancient spread of social shares,
a farmer, after all, has store
to sell beyond his cognizance;
to plant it well means everything
from ground to grain to you and me.
Careless, naturally, the story
fumbles left and right, granting some
delight to famished birds and thorns
that represent intransigence,
mindless they may be, the seed is
spilled for earnest filching, tax-free.
Yet some grain needs to grow, even
those scavengers innately know
that barren fields can only lead
to dust bowls. Thus the vigilance
of pheasants in your roadside ditch,
to germinate what we can’t see.
Friday, February 5, 2016
Another Week of Poems
Every Thought Is A Prayer
Week 6: Roman Sans Clef
No more than a short-month twelfth of my poems are hopelessly romantic, but this is the month to share them, and this week, without a key, reflects the beginning of the journey.
02/05: North Side Story
02/06: Paris & Valentino
02/07: They, Bearing Roses
02/08: Love, Revisited
02/09: Carpodacus
02/10: Warming Up
02/11: Moleskin 1.6: That Prayer Continues...
02/05:
North Side Story
Compare: the rich fools and the poor losers,
happiness and misery, as if the surface was their story
through and through, as if the smiles upon their faces
ran as deep as the scowl on yours.
And more: you dream big dreams constructed of envy,
green as grass, born in shadows,
from which the mansions in your mind stretch higher,
around which the bitter grass grows greener.
Despair: it is not fair, the way they never finished high
school, how they cheated everyone to get ahead, leaving you
looking through fences, cursing the gods of sides,
of giving and taking.
But what for? Your misery wins you nothing,
your curses even less, the vacuous disapproval
of your neighbors shaking their heads, tut-tutting
and casting down their eyes on your poverty.
(2001)
02/06:
Paris & Valentino
I’ll never trade you in for Paris, Baby
And you will never have the man
Who makes his million Euros
At a Metro sandwich stand
With a fifth grade education,
But I yam what I yam
And you will always be
the one for me.
We once walked along the river;
I still hold on to the dream
Of lovers on a starry night
Before the stars became
So complicated. Anyway,
I yam what I yam, etc….
Stand me next to Valentino, Baby,
I will never have the tan
Or the money or the fame
But I’ll keep doing what I can
To make you happy….
(2001)
02/07:
They, Bearing Roses
Rose: the loveless petals always fall
away like pages of a good book cheaply bound:
no matter how great the story,
the crumbling glue of time ever puts the good book down
one spent page after another, until
nothing remains but the bud—
no matter what the story has to say
the crumbling glue of time ever puts the good book down
one spent page after another, until
nothing remains but a pile of petals
and the memory of a story. But one day
we will know the plot of each good book by heart.
(1990)
02/08:
Love, Revisited
In the beginning they (happy lovers) decided they (in love) would never fight. Even romance knows the tinge of reality, though, and soon they (beautiful partnership) revised their love-based rule: they (the perfective pair) would still not allow fighting, but they (in each other’s arms) would be permitted to disagree —in prim fashion, of course: it was decided they (beyond the puppy stages) would be mature about their —dreams —differences and would discuss things rationally, always moving eagerly toward the beautiful ends of kissing, caressing, making up and making it better than before.
They were in love. And they (a serious couple) eventually decided to be married. The date was set for seven months in advance.
And they (reality-based) continued to disagree, here and there, but there was always a make-up, and they (pioneers of their own realm) continued to climb. The way grew steeper, though: “here and there” became “here, here and here and there and there.” They (trying their hardest) decided to re-revise the rules.
“We’re fighting,” he said.
“Yes, we are, aren’t we?” she agreed.
“But it doesn’t mean we’re in trouble, does it?”
“No,” she said, “but we’d better be careful.”
And they (a team) devised a clever set of brand new rules —of which they (man and woman, woman and man) would each try to claim exclusive credit —nevertheless, the rules seemed to be practicable and rational; they (the affianced pair) agreed that this would be a great foundation for their marriage.
The rules were as such: Whenever one or the other of them would disagree about something, they (together) would go into the kitchen; they (she and he) would clear the kitchen table and sit down facing each other with the table —across its shortest dimension —between them. They (the two sides) would keep all four hands on the table where they (the hands) could be seen by all four eyes. This table would be bare, except for one initial addition, the centerpiece of their list of rules, and a literal centerpiece, too: an arrangement of roses, over which they (the one-to-one) would have to carry out all their marital discussions and disagreements and fights. The table was of a size that neither party was far from the other and both of their faces were practically forced to endure the flowers’ scents.
“We will not change this rule,” she exclaimed.
“No, we must not,” he agreed, and together they (the happy lovers) smiled.
And eventually they (living dreamers) were married. The honeymoon came and went, and they (steadfast partners) remained in love. Over the years dimensions were revised and definitions changed, but basically they (adherers to a promise) stuck surprisingly close to their rules of the kitchen table. And long after the honeymoon, they (the desperate diplomats) were buying each other roses two or three times every week.
He sometimes thought that he couldn’t stand the smell any longer, and she sometimes wondered if it made any sense to pay good money for something that died after a few days, but the roses were continually replenished, and they (the hopeless lovers) remained in love. (1990)
02/09:
Carpodacus
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter —and the Bird is on the Wing.
— Omar Khayyam, tr. Edward Fitzgerald
Sometimes when winds of winter seem to linger
And providence forgets to fill the feeder
I feel the fundamental pangs of hunger
Making me curse the backyard life we lead here.
Our everyday to day existence hinges
On seeds and crumbs that others think to leave us;
I’m tired of living life out on the fringes
And waiting for the seasons to relieve us.
Yet daily I am saved from being bitter
By rays of sunshine breaking through the dinge:
I hear the sweetest music in your twitter
And see the rosy beauty of your tinge.
With you beside me, winter doesn’t matter
And I don't need the fates to make me fatter.
(2005)
02/10:
Warming Up
I don’t know when our world began
to melt away
but suddenly
we’re closer to each other than
we’ve ever been before.
I see
each day a little
differently,
a little clearer
knowing that
I’m here with you;
I want to see
tomorrow even more.
It matters
to me now. It matters that
you’re here with me,
that we can feel
the fire of the same sun setting
on a distant shore,
that we’ll
have this,
as days turn into years,
to share,
as distance disappears.
(2009)
02/11:
Moleskin 1.6: The Prayer Continues...
That prayer continues, seeking courage and wisdom, but these too I'll save for the later chapters: perhaps I'll be bolder and smarter with experience and age, somewhere down the river a ways, past 50, 60, 70... for now, though, it is enough to accept the things I cannot change, to let my fears be taken by the quiet current ---to simply be! Existing, persisting, maintaining, remaining: keeping my place in time, or the space, in any case, that I've been given for the moment. Here I stand. And if, for the moment, I let intellect distract me, to exist somewhere between Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, surely I would falter; likewise, if I let my blood boil within me, like a fanatic or a patriot, I might lose my place, this moment in which I find myself. It is not too deep to pray this prayer though, a singular pray in need of being prayed: Grant me, God, serenity. (2015)
Week 6: Roman Sans Clef
No more than a short-month twelfth of my poems are hopelessly romantic, but this is the month to share them, and this week, without a key, reflects the beginning of the journey.
02/05: North Side Story
02/06: Paris & Valentino
02/07: They, Bearing Roses
02/08: Love, Revisited
02/09: Carpodacus
02/10: Warming Up
02/11: Moleskin 1.6: That Prayer Continues...
North Side Story
Compare: the rich fools and the poor losers,
happiness and misery, as if the surface was their story
through and through, as if the smiles upon their faces
ran as deep as the scowl on yours.
And more: you dream big dreams constructed of envy,
green as grass, born in shadows,
from which the mansions in your mind stretch higher,
around which the bitter grass grows greener.
Despair: it is not fair, the way they never finished high
school, how they cheated everyone to get ahead, leaving you
looking through fences, cursing the gods of sides,
of giving and taking.
But what for? Your misery wins you nothing,
your curses even less, the vacuous disapproval
of your neighbors shaking their heads, tut-tutting
and casting down their eyes on your poverty.
(2001)
02/06:
Paris & Valentino
I’ll never trade you in for Paris, Baby
And you will never have the man
Who makes his million Euros
At a Metro sandwich stand
With a fifth grade education,
But I yam what I yam
And you will always be
the one for me.
We once walked along the river;
I still hold on to the dream
Of lovers on a starry night
Before the stars became
So complicated. Anyway,
I yam what I yam, etc….
Stand me next to Valentino, Baby,
I will never have the tan
Or the money or the fame
But I’ll keep doing what I can
To make you happy….
(2001)
02/07:
They, Bearing Roses
Rose: the loveless petals always fall
away like pages of a good book cheaply bound:
no matter how great the story,
the crumbling glue of time ever puts the good book down
one spent page after another, until
nothing remains but the bud—
no matter what the story has to say
the crumbling glue of time ever puts the good book down
one spent page after another, until
nothing remains but a pile of petals
and the memory of a story. But one day
we will know the plot of each good book by heart.
(1990)
02/08:
Love, Revisited
In the beginning they (happy lovers) decided they (in love) would never fight. Even romance knows the tinge of reality, though, and soon they (beautiful partnership) revised their love-based rule: they (the perfective pair) would still not allow fighting, but they (in each other’s arms) would be permitted to disagree —in prim fashion, of course: it was decided they (beyond the puppy stages) would be mature about their —dreams —differences and would discuss things rationally, always moving eagerly toward the beautiful ends of kissing, caressing, making up and making it better than before.
They were in love. And they (a serious couple) eventually decided to be married. The date was set for seven months in advance.
And they (reality-based) continued to disagree, here and there, but there was always a make-up, and they (pioneers of their own realm) continued to climb. The way grew steeper, though: “here and there” became “here, here and here and there and there.” They (trying their hardest) decided to re-revise the rules.
“We’re fighting,” he said.
“Yes, we are, aren’t we?” she agreed.
“But it doesn’t mean we’re in trouble, does it?”
“No,” she said, “but we’d better be careful.”
And they (a team) devised a clever set of brand new rules —of which they (man and woman, woman and man) would each try to claim exclusive credit —nevertheless, the rules seemed to be practicable and rational; they (the affianced pair) agreed that this would be a great foundation for their marriage.
The rules were as such: Whenever one or the other of them would disagree about something, they (together) would go into the kitchen; they (she and he) would clear the kitchen table and sit down facing each other with the table —across its shortest dimension —between them. They (the two sides) would keep all four hands on the table where they (the hands) could be seen by all four eyes. This table would be bare, except for one initial addition, the centerpiece of their list of rules, and a literal centerpiece, too: an arrangement of roses, over which they (the one-to-one) would have to carry out all their marital discussions and disagreements and fights. The table was of a size that neither party was far from the other and both of their faces were practically forced to endure the flowers’ scents.
“We will not change this rule,” she exclaimed.
“No, we must not,” he agreed, and together they (the happy lovers) smiled.
And eventually they (living dreamers) were married. The honeymoon came and went, and they (steadfast partners) remained in love. Over the years dimensions were revised and definitions changed, but basically they (adherers to a promise) stuck surprisingly close to their rules of the kitchen table. And long after the honeymoon, they (the desperate diplomats) were buying each other roses two or three times every week.
He sometimes thought that he couldn’t stand the smell any longer, and she sometimes wondered if it made any sense to pay good money for something that died after a few days, but the roses were continually replenished, and they (the hopeless lovers) remained in love. (1990)
02/09:
Carpodacus
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter —and the Bird is on the Wing.
— Omar Khayyam, tr. Edward Fitzgerald
Sometimes when winds of winter seem to linger
And providence forgets to fill the feeder
I feel the fundamental pangs of hunger
Making me curse the backyard life we lead here.
Our everyday to day existence hinges
On seeds and crumbs that others think to leave us;
I’m tired of living life out on the fringes
And waiting for the seasons to relieve us.
Yet daily I am saved from being bitter
By rays of sunshine breaking through the dinge:
I hear the sweetest music in your twitter
And see the rosy beauty of your tinge.
With you beside me, winter doesn’t matter
And I don't need the fates to make me fatter.
(2005)
02/10:
Warming Up
I don’t know when our world began
to melt away
but suddenly
we’re closer to each other than
we’ve ever been before.
I see
each day a little
differently,
a little clearer
knowing that
I’m here with you;
I want to see
tomorrow even more.
It matters
to me now. It matters that
you’re here with me,
that we can feel
the fire of the same sun setting
on a distant shore,
that we’ll
have this,
as days turn into years,
to share,
as distance disappears.
(2009)
02/11:
Moleskin 1.6: The Prayer Continues...
That prayer continues, seeking courage and wisdom, but these too I'll save for the later chapters: perhaps I'll be bolder and smarter with experience and age, somewhere down the river a ways, past 50, 60, 70... for now, though, it is enough to accept the things I cannot change, to let my fears be taken by the quiet current ---to simply be! Existing, persisting, maintaining, remaining: keeping my place in time, or the space, in any case, that I've been given for the moment. Here I stand. And if, for the moment, I let intellect distract me, to exist somewhere between Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, surely I would falter; likewise, if I let my blood boil within me, like a fanatic or a patriot, I might lose my place, this moment in which I find myself. It is not too deep to pray this prayer though, a singular pray in need of being prayed: Grant me, God, serenity. (2015)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)