Monthly Archives: July 2018

Are my feet off the ground?

With an inkling of joy & brightness, I’ve experienced what seem to me to be the figurative visitations of angels.  Chance encounters, while out in the marketplace or pumping gas, where a person with an almost visible soul would happen to look my way and smile brightly.  That small gesture has brought forth from within me the best I have to offer, and, out of my tired and sad eyes, I try to return the same.

This has happened many times within my last ten years, and always with a different person.

Once, on one of the very worst days of my life, something passed through me and made lighter the burdens of my mind.  Again, a visitation of sorts.  It did not involve a person, but still I had the distinct feeling that someone was telling me to be of good cheer, for this will pass.

There was an afterglow from this that lasted, and the foretelling was, of course, true.

It’s said that the soul wanders during the dream state.  Some dreams, for me, have involved feelings of being lost or directionless.  Others have encompassed a bottomless loneliness.  One was a bright and lucid dream, in which a cherished Other looked with warmth into my own soul and physically held me.  I woke up crying.

Then there are the ones centered  around the magical ability to fly or levitate.  There was a memorable episode where I was attending an important cocktail party in a palatial mansion.  We were all dressed formally.  I felt ridiculously out of place, like a Mr. Bean in a tux.  I then did my dream-thing and began to levitate, swimming horizontally through the rooms with a grin on my face.  Seemingly, no one noticed, and this irked me.  So, I slowed down, waved, and tried to make eye contact, all the while shouting “ARE MY FEET OFF THE GROUND?”  Figure that one out.  I should tell my psychologist about these things.

 

The bad trip

Today, we are shopping.
I have been well for a long while now.
It was planned.
I am with you both, my dear ones.
But, since awakening, two cups of coffee ago,
I am thrown back to blocked feelings of desperation.
We are in a milieu of throngs.
I seek equilibrium.
There are smiles of kindness.
I meekly try for the same.
Some hold doors for us.
But some give snotty stares if we stop too long.
You sense disquiet in me.
As I grapple, and strive for the least embarrassment,
your own self assurance is melting down.
You require of me simple things.
Which color should I buy?
Where do you want to go for lunch?
My robotic answers and failure to smile
reflect poorly upon me.
I am selfish.
I cannot rise above it.
Please, just lead.
I will follow.

 

…Carry these men and women who get lost when the sun goes down

WHO ….was a pupil.

In Her class.

She never used a pointer, but knew how to single you out.  He called it The Flying Fickle Finger of Fate, and that digit indeed touched his oblivious forehead.  He had his nose in a Hare Krishna book whilst the class was studying Eastern religion.

SHE made an example.

WHO followed her home.  The sun was setting.  She opened the door to her garage.
He watched, something sharp in his back pocket.

He closed the door.

SHE gave him a hand…….

Who shouts out hallelujah, who’s gonna sing out loud?

 

Who is a midnight driver ….
That stays about ten over the highway limit, so as to appear normal.  Dead on between the lines, no wandering onto the shoulder.  Spits out a bloody froth.  Wiggles a loose tooth with the tongue.  A hand rests on the seat, bloody too.

Revenge was served hot tonight.

Something’s been severed, in spite.

The Animal smiles, uncontrite.

Hare Krishna to all, and to all a Good Night…….

Snake oil

This modern day

The ads exclaim

When selling us their pills

Can help! Can help!

(A weakling’s claim)

They’ll never cure our ills

The promises they make are rash

They see themselves as clever

And think we’ll pay our hard earned cash

For snake oil cures

No, never!

The doubtful claims are bold and shiny

And now we all have hope

The side effects they wish were tiny

(And so they softly spoke)

This drug, it’s not for everyone

And so you must be cautious

May cause rash or swollen tongue

And might just make you nauseous

So, thinking persons, don’t be dense

These warnings, printed finely

Should make you use your common sense.

”Twas given you, divinely.

Vignettes in Yellow Brick

We were kids
In the old apartment,
Just sprouting into adolescence
Not in poverty
But we knew
Who the Bailiff was
And somehow
We were always saved
And could always stay
The bricks were yellow
The hallways dim with dirt
Broken windows
Smelly carpets
Pothole pavement
Freeze in winter
Boil in summer
Lazy landlord
Nothing fixed on time
But pay the rent we must
On time
It was home I think
For nigh on ten years
My brother and I
We two, inseparable
Bunk beds, one room
That was us
He had the top one
He was lightest
But not light enough
He came crashing down
On me, one night
Bolts not tight. What a fright
That got fixed, then one night
We had spaghetti for dinner
He got sick
Over the side, down the ladder
We fell in with little hooligans
Maybe we were hooligans at heart
Made stun guns
From sawed off hockey sticks
With clothespin triggers
Holding tight bands of rubber
With bobby pin bullets
The Police did not like this much
And we heard about something called
Juvenile Hall
Guns confiscated
Wrists slapped
Started a gang
With pretend wooden swords
And Mom’s old sheets for flags.
You’ll put someone’s eye out with that
The side door at Yellow Brick
Had a tall narrow window
So you could see outside
Coming down the stairs
It got smashed
And was left open
For a day or two or three
Our friend Stanley
Got used to running down the steps
And right through the open gap
Until one day the glass man came
And we didn’t know
We heard a loud crash
And screaming
Stanley nearly died
He was so cut up
The neighbors brought towels
They were soaked in his blood
There was a fire in the night
Outside in our underwear
In October, all clear
My little brother had a special friend
Named Stewie
But they moved away
His Mom Sophie would drive him
For visits, sometimes overnight
One time, she came to get him
They went to go home
And were never heard from again
Died on the road
Bad crash
Our little girlie friends
Started growing a little
I liked Rosie, and brought her cookies
Puppy love
There was Arlene too
She took needles every day
And the backs of her legs were red
We loved Elvis
And at thirteen came The Beatles
Change in the world
I went to work as a bagel baker
At thirteen. At thirteen.
Life had new things in store
It was our time
To leave the street we called
The Yellow Brick Road.

***

[Image:  https://pixabay.com/users/mabelamber-1377835/%5D

Eavesdropper

At our summer retreat
I am ten, and a half.
From the outhouse,
I hear your voices,
casual as you return from the pool.
Such a ninny-
Won’t go in the water.
Howard, tell him he’s supposed to enjoy himself.
That’s why we’re here.
Unsuspecting conversations hurt the most.
They are honest and free.
I come back to the trailer,
fake nonchalance.
Hurt inside, feeling foreign.
They all go off to visit the neighbors.
I stay back.
What’s the matter, stick in the mud?
I say I will go shoot some baskets.
When they are gone,
I take a towel and go to the pool.
I watch.  I see.
I climb the high dive tower,
and I drop.
But not for you.

 

 

Young man, old man

In February’s frozen spring
I came across a curious thing-
a solitary sapling in the sun.

It looked as if ’twere shivering,
with papered leaves a-quivering,
and the wind imparted voices to each one.

I thought its spindly arms were bare
until I heard the chattering there
and spied the little curlicues of brown.

And thought- so many made it through
the winter’s blast, the icy blue,
and held on fast to make their chittering sound